UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 

BY 
MRS.  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

With  Illustrations 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

fitoertf&e  $«#  Cambribge 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY   HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


SIXTH  IMPRESSION,  JANUARY  IQ22 


"PS 


4 All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces  / 


190103 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  DOORWAY  OF  59  MX.  VERNON  STREET 

Photogravure  frontispiece 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  AT  NINETEEN  18 

EDWIN  BOOTH'S  HOUSE  AT  DORCHESTER,  MASSACHU 
SETTS  40 

THE  OLD  "NUTTER  HOUSE"  84 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS  88 

BROADSIDE  OF  "THE  GREAT  INTERNATIONAL 
WALKING-MATCH"  OF  FEBRUARY  29,  1868  104 

LONGFELLOW  IN  HIS  STUDY,  WITH  A  FACSIMILE  AU 
TOGRAPH  QUOTATION  FROM  "THE  CHILDREN'S 
HOUR"  108 

HALL  AND  STAIRWAY  OF  THE  "NUTTER  HOUSE  "         112 

REAR  VIEW  OF  THE  "NUTTER  HOUSE,"  WITH  GAR 
DEN  116 

THE  "  JOCUND  SPRITES  "  120 

SAMUEL  L.  CLEMENS  128 

ROBERT  BROWNING,  WITH  FACSIMILE  OF  A  LETTER  178 

JAMES  MCNEILL  WHISTLER  182 

ALDRICH  AT  LYNN  TERRACE  222 

GEORGE  H.  BOUGHTON,  WITH  FACSIMILE  OF  A 
LETTER  230 

WILLIAM  BLACK  IN  ARMOR  234 

From  the  portrait  by  JOHN  PETTIE,  R.A.,  painted  in  1877 


viii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

DRAWING-ROOM  AT  59  MT.  VERNON  STREET  264 

JULIA  ARTHUR  272 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  278 

CHARLES  FROST  ALDRICH  IN  THE  UNIFORM  OF  THE 
FIRST  CORPS  OF  CADETS,  MASSACHUSETTS  VOL 
UNTEER  MILITIA  284 

AT  MOUNT  AUBURN  286 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  "Life  "  of  Mr.  Aldrich,  Mr.  Ferris  Greens- 
let  writes:  "In  the  late  fall  of  1862  Mr.  Aldrich 
had  met  at  Mr.  Edwin  Booth's  rooms  the  woman 
who  was  to  be  his  lifelong  companion."  The  circum 
stance  effecting  this  event,  begun  two  years  before, 
was  interesting  from  the  subtle  prescience  expressed 
by  this  young  girl,  when  she,  for  the  first  time, 
saw  Mr.  Booth  on  the  stage.  It  was  at  the  end  of 
a  summer  passed  in  the  White  Mountains.  The 
journey  from  New  Hampshire  to  New  York  was 
much  more  seriously  to  be  considered  than  would 
be  possible  to-day.  A  break  for  the  night  must 
be  made  somewhere,  so  Boston,  and  the  Tremont 
House,  which  then  was  a  notable  hostelry,  was  se 
lected.  On  the  arrival  in  that  city  an  invitation  was 
received  for  the  theatre  that  evening  to  see  a  young 
actor,  who  was  playing  to  enthusiastic  audiences 
and  winning  fresh  laurels  —  the  son  of  a  great  actor, 
Junius  Brutus  Booth.  The  youthful  one  of  the  family 
was  very  reluctant  to  have  the  invitation  accepted, 
and  shamelessly  confessed  that  she  could  not  be 


2  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

tempted  to  sit  through  ''Hamlet"  —  that  she 
did  n't  care  for  Shakespeare  anyway.  But  being  in 
the  minority,  and  as  she  could  not  be  left  at  the 
hotel  alone,  with  outward  depression  and  inward 
rage  she  found  herself  seated  at  the  theatre,  so  near 
the  front  that  the  orchestra  was  all  that  separated 
her  from  the  Court  of  Denmark.  Lost  in  wonder  and 
amazement  at  the  power  of  the  playwright  and  the 
wonderful  magic  and  magnetism  of  the  actor,  lost 
to  the  actual  world,  and  living  only  in  the  life  be 
yond  the  green  curtain,  she  sat  spell-bound  through 
the  eventful  evening.  After  the  return  to  the  hotel 
she  said  to  her  sister:  "The  turning-point  has  come 
to  my  life.  That  young  actor  will  control  my  des 
tiny."  Asked  how  that  could  be,  as  her  family  had 
never  known  any  person  connected  with  the  stage, 
she  answered  with  still  greater  certainty:  "I  do  not 
know  the  way,  but  it  will  be." 

Some  weeks  after  this  episode,  her  family  having 
taken  an  apartment  in  one  of  the  hotels  in  New 
York,  the  housekeeper  superintending  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  rooms  lingered  a  moment  to  say:  "You 
will  have  pleasant  neighbors.  A  young  actor  and  his 
bride,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwin  Booth,  are  on  this  cor 
ridor.  They  were  married  a  month  or  two  ago." 
Thus  the  "destiny  that  shapes  our  ends  "  was  mak 
ing  real  the  premonition  so  earnestly  believed. 

Weeks  succeeded  weeks  and  nothing  was  seen  of 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  3 

Mr.  Booth  and  his  young  bride.  Sometimes  in  pass 
ing  one  caught  sight  of  a  cosy  round  table  set  for 
two;  well-filled  bookcases  and  the  glimmer  of  fire 
light  on  the  picture  frames.  Once  the  door  opened 
and  gave  a  picture  now  indelible  in  memory:  a  blaz 
ing  fire,  a  huge  black  bearskin  rug,  a  cushion,  an 
open  book,  and  by  it  a  guitar.  As  the  door  closed, 
the  listener  waiting  heard  the  soft  music  of  its 
strings,  and  a  sweet  girlish  voice,  giving  fresh  grace 
to  the  old-time  song,  "Come  live  with  me  and  be 
my  love." 

For  the  daughters  of  the  house  life  was  not  so 
strenuous  in  the  sixties  as  in  the  present  time.  There 
were  lessons  and  masters,  to  be  sure,  and  plenty  of 
them,  but  there  was  also  plenty  of  time  to  play.  And 
of  this  time  the  younger  daughter  had  taken  undue 
advantage.  On  a  day  that  was  to  be  ever  afterwards 
marked  with  a  white  stone,  she  had  been  late  to 
luncheon,  and  the  law  was  inflexible  that  under  no 
circumstances  would  it  be  permissible  to  go  to  the 
public  dining-room  unattended.  But  she  was  hungry, 
and  with  premeditation  determined  to  disobey;  and 
so  with  stealthy  steps  found  her  way  into  "the  little 
dining-room,"  where  a  surprised  waiter  gave  her  a 
seat  at  a  small  table.  Perplexed  over  the  composi 
tion  of  an  excuse  that  would  not  go  to  pieces  with 
the  cross-questionings  of  her  judge  in  relation  to 
her  disinclination  to  luncheon  that  day,  she  did  not 


4  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

notice  that  any  one  had  entered  the  room  until  two 
chairs  were  placed  at  her  table  and  two  guests  were 
given  them.  The  unbelievable  had  happened  —  the 
Prince  and  his  Princess  sat  at  her  table !  She  could 
have  touched  them!  For  a  moment  everything 
seemed  unreal  —  the  vagary  of  a  dream  —  except 
the  definite  thought,  if  she  raised  her  eyes  the  forms 
would  take  incorporeal  shape  and  steal  away,  like 
the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  father.  Companioned  with 
this  thought  was  the  unhappy  knowledge  that 
should  they  prove  real  and  in  the  flesh,  she  herself 
must  soon  steal  away,  for  they  would  know  that 
nothing  came  after  ice-cream,  and  she  was  lacking 
the  magic  wand  to  turn  it  backwards  into  soup. 

It  is  most  difficult  to  give  any  idea  of  Mr.  Booth's 
personality  at  this  time.  His  fine  bearing  and  natural 
grace,  the  magic  charm  of  face  and  figure,  the  melo 
dious  voice  and  the  ever-changing  expression  of  his 
eyes!  The  one  who  was  to  be  loved  the  most  sat  by 
him.  Slight  in  figure,  but  with  lovely  lines;  honest, 
straightforward  eyes,  brown  and  tender;  years  that 
counted  nineteen ;  an  ineffable  grace  that  made  even 
strangers  love  her. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Booth  "chatted  of  this  and  that, 
the  nothings  that  make  up  life,"  until  suddenly  the 
quiet  of  the  table  was  broken  in  upon  by  the  mad 
rush  of  a  greyhound,  who  had  slipped  the  leash  from 
the  hand  that  held  him,  and  with  inexhaustible  joy 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  5 

found  his  mistress.  Tragedy  also  entered  with  the 
coming  of  the  valet,  who  inadvertently  had  allowed 
this  disturber  of  the  peace  to  gain  his  freedom.  There 
was  a  lurid  flash  of  the  tragedian's  eyes,  a  lightning 
glare  of  baleful  wrath,  and  then  valet  and  dog  es 
caped  together.  With  the  protection  of  footlights 
nothing  daunted  the  indomitable  heart  of  Armand 
Richelieu ;  but  in  front  of  the  footlights  no  girl  was 
ever  more  shy  or  shrank  more  from  observation. 
For  the  other  two,  however,  the  silence  was  broken. 
The  dog  in  his  chaotic  career  had  not  admitted  an 
obstacle  on  his  way  to  his  mistress,  who  with  pretty 
words  asked  forgiveness  for  the  culprit.  The  free 
masonry  of  youth  soon  put  the  two  at  ease,  and 
made  the  talk  so  friendly  that  when  the  melted  ice 
cream  could  no  longer  be  made  the  excuse  to  stay, 
they  parted,  each  expressing  the  hope  of  meeting 
soon  again  —  but  Mr.  Booth  sat  silent  and  aloof. 

This  meeting  —  so  momentous  for  one  in  its  re 
sults  —  was  accidental  for  all.  The  casual  chance  of 
a  prolonged  rehearsal  —  it  was  the  first  and  only 
time  that  the  Booths  came  to  "the  little  dining- 
room"  that  winter. 

"We  are  puppets,  man  in  his  pride, 

And  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower. 
Do  we  move  ourselves  on  the  board, 
Or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  Power?  " 

How  vividly  memory  brings  to  mind   a  bitter 


6  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

winter  night  —  a  night  of  sleet  and  snow  and 
howling  winds!  The  coming  of  a  note  that  read, 
"  May  the  culprit  and  his  mistress  call  on  his  young 
friend?" 

The  years  recede  and  again  I  see,  framed  in  an 
open  door,  a  slender  girl  in  a  soft  red  dress  which  fell 
in  simple  folds  about  her  feet.  The  refracting  light 
striking  and  vivifying  her  lover's  gift,  a  perfect 
chrysolite,  holding  the  lace  at  her  throat. 

"If  Heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world, 
of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite,  I  'd  not  have 
sold  her  for  it." 

This  evening  was  for  one  the  Open  Sesame  of 
idyllic  days,  full  of  romance  and  mystery.  Mr. 
Booth,  then  twenty-seven  years  old,  was  in  the 
height  of  his  splendor.  The  early  part  of  his  life  had 
much  of  hardship  and  vicissitude,  which  with  an 
inherited  temperament  had  stamped  his  pale  and 
mobile  face  with  a  deep  expression  of  melancholy. 
The  strange  magnetic  quality  of  his  nature  was  al 
most  perceptible  to  the  touch.  No  one  could  come 
into  his  presence  without,  consciously  or  uncon 
sciously,  coming  under  his  influence.  He  inspired  an 
admiration  that  no  word  can  adequately  describe. 
When  he  walked  the  streets  people  stopped  to  gaze 
at  him.  When  he  played,  the  stage  door  on  the  street 
was  blocked  with  both  men  and  women  who  waited 
for  one  more  glimpse  of  him  as  he  stepped  to  his 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  7 

carriage.  Of  this  luminous  atmosphere  in  which  he 
walked  he  seemed  unconscious;  or  brushed  it  aside 
as  something  disconnected  with  himself,  belonging 
solely  to  the  trappings  and  paraphernalia  of  the 
stage.  Never  then,  or  in  the  years  that  followed,  was 
the  personal  note  heard,  excepting  one  night,  so  well 
remembered,  when  in  the  darkness  of  a  stage  box  an 
apparition  came :  Hamlet  in  his  sable  weeds,  and  as 
glad  to  see  his  young,  ardent  friends  as  if  he  had  not 
himself  ensconced  them  an  hour  before  in  their  cur 
tained  nest.  The  joy  of  meeting  was  so  loudly  ex 
pressed  by  him  that  the  caution  came,  "Edwin, 
Edwin,  not  so  loud,  they'll  hear  you  speak!"  With 
a  light  kiss  on  the  uplifted  face  the  gay  and  laughing 
voice  rang  out,  "Why,  they  paid  their  money  to 
hear  me  speak  —  and  speak  I  will ! " 

It  was  not  decreed  that  Mr.  Booth  in  his  life  of 
gloom  and  glory  should  know  much  of  happiness. 
Doubtless  this  first  year  of  the  honeymoon  of 
marriage  brought  him  nearer  to  it  than  he  had  ever 
been  before.  No  hermit  in  his  cell,  or  nun  in  her 
cloister,  was  more  secluded  from  the  world  than 
this  happy  pair.  Daily  on  their  table  were  laid 
letters,  cards,  notes  of  invitation  —  all  read  and 
courteously  declined.  They  went  nowhere,  saw  no 
one,  save  the  two  young  girls  with  whom  the  new 
and  ardent  friendship  was  to  live  through  distant 
years,  warm  and  vital  to  the  end. 


8  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

The  coming  of  each  day  brought  little  change. 
A  morning  walk  to  rehearsal,  a  drive  perhaps  in  the 
afternoon,  a  partie  carrei  for  dinner,  with  the  en 
chanting  talk,  the  extraordinary  activity  of  Mr. 
Booth's  keen  intellect,  and  the  playful  humor  when 
he  was  in  the  vein  of  story-telling. 

Never  to  be  forgotten  is  his  impersonation  of 
three  miserably  unhappy  puppies,  hanging  in  a 
basket  at  night  over  a  berth  in  a  Pullman  car.  He 
gave  himself  the  characteristics  of  each  separate 
dog,  with  his  head  over  the  basket,  voicing  its  dis 
tress  and  discontent  over  the  situation,  baying 
to  the  moon. 

After  the  dinner  there  would  be  the  chat  round 
the  fire,  the  Prince  lying  on  the  black  bearskin  rug, 
face  downward,  supported  by  his  elbows,  going 
over  the  play  for  the  evening,  Mrs.  Booth  giving 
him  his  cues;  then  the  rapid  drive  to  the  theatre, 
arriving  long  before  the  audience  came  in  order  that 
Mr.  Booth  might  have  time  for  his  make-up.  He 
always  went  with  us  to  the  box  —  always  came 
there  for  us  at  the  end  of  the  play. 

In  retrospection  I  know  the  spur  for  his  best  was 
not  the  crowded  house  with  its  loud  acclamation, 
the  shouts  and  wild  applause.  The  play  for  him  was 
all  for  that  sweet  girl-wife,  who  from  behind  the 
curtains,  shut  from  his  sight,  followed  word  for 
word  his  lines.  Once,  clenching  her  slender  hand, 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  9 

she  exclaimed,  "Oh,  I  have  made  a  mistake  — 
said  the  wrong  line,  and  Edwin  is  saying  it!"  So 
subtle  and  close  was  the  tie  between  them. 

The  only  social  event  remembered  of  which 
they  were  a  part  this  winter  was  something  with 
a  Shakespearean  touch  at  the  Century  Club.  Mr. 
Booth  accepted  the  invitation  with  the  greater  re 
luctance  as  it  obliged  him  to  wear  evening  dress, 
in  which  he  was  always  ill  at  ease.  He  confided  to 
his  listener  that  in  that  environment  he  was  so  con 
scious  of  his  legs  that  they  became  to  him  imper 
tinently  intrusive  and  prominent. 

When  the  dreaded  evening  came,  and  the  two 
unwilling  guests  were  clothed  for  the  sacrifice,  Mrs. 
Booth  looking  like  a  violet  itself  in  her  purple  dress, 
lighted  by  the  fire  of  her  opals,  Mr.  Booth  said: 
"Now  every  man,  woman,  and  child  I  meet  will 
say  the  thing  they  always  say,  '  Mr.  Booth,  do  you 
believe  Hamlet  was  really  insane,  or  did  he  think 
it  meet  to  put  an  antic  disposition  on?'"  With 
this,  and  making  his  wonderful  eyes  convey  with 
electrical  effect  the  awful  frenzy  in  the  storm  scene 
in  "King  Lear,"  they  vanished. 

With  one  more  incident  of  this  archaic  life  the 
historian  must  turn  the  leaves,  and  set  her  stage 
for  later  days  and  other  players.  One  morning  the 
word  came  that,  for  some  now  forgotten  reason, 
there  would  be  no  performance  at  the  theatre  that 


TO  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

night.  This  gave  the  opportunity  Mr.  Booth  eagerly 
wished  for  —  the  chance  for  a  flying  trip  to  Phil 
adelphia  to  see  his  mother,  to  whom  he  was  strongly 
devoted.  This  would  mean  the  first  separation  of 
the  lovers,  and  the  looker-on  marvelled  that  the 
flower-like  face  of  the  girl  wife  was  without  even  the 
shadow  of  gloom,  and  the  voice  insistent  that  the 
visit  must  be  made.  When  the  sweet  sorrow  of  part 
ing  was  over  the  explanation  came.  Hamlet  was  to 
have  a  great  surprise,  a  new  dress  —  and  we  were 
to  make  it! 

The  party  of  three  threw  themselves  into  this 
daring  exploit  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  ignorant 
youth,  and  with  so  little  experience  of  the  diffi 
culties  that  might  beset  them  in  the  undertaking 
that,  had  the  proposition  been  to  costume  the  en 
tire  company  in  twelve  hours,  they  gladly  would 
have  accepted  it.  Yardsticks  and  measures  were  at 
once  brought  out,  and  severe  mathematical  com 
putations  made  as  to  the  number  of  yards  neces 
sary  to  compass  a  gown.  A  messenger  was  sent  to 
the  theatre  for  Hamlet's  robes;  a  message  to  the 
shop  for  velvet;  and  soon  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
impatient  hands  the  work  went  bravely  on,  and 
the  Prince's  discarded  inky  coat  fell  to  the  floor  in 
as  many  pieces  as  Joseph's  colored  one.  In  the 
excitement  of  ripping  the  garment  the  problem  of 
putting  together  again  had  not  been  considered, 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  n 

and  although  all  pieces  were  carefully  duplicated, 
they  were  without  form  and  void  in  coming  together 
again.  No  picture  puzzle  was  ever  so  puzzling. 
There  were  hours  of  heroic  effort  spent,  followed  by 
black  despair.  When  Mr.  Booth  returned  next  day 
he  had  his  surprise,  indeed,  but  not  the  one  counted 
on.  Three  wan  figures  sitting  on  the  floor,  in  their 
dark  house  of  cloud,  disconsolate;  his  mourning 
suit  in  ruin  at  their  feet,  and  Hamlet  to  be  played 
that  night!  After  his  first  moment  of  consternation, 
his  tenderness  and  playful  humor  brought  balm 
to  the  sorrowful  hearts.  There  was  given  much 
praise  and  gratitude  for  the  good  intentions,  and 
tactful  sympathy  for  the  failure.  There  were  hur 
ried  calls  to  the  theatre  for  wardrobe  women  and 
seamstresses,  and  in  their  masterful  hands  pieces 
went  easily  together,  and  the  inky  coat  was  worn 
in  triumph  that  night. 

The  spring  came  and  brought  with  it  the  most 
advantageous  offer  of  a  London  engagement.  The 
offer  was  accepted,  and  we  sadly  waved  our  last 
adieus  as  their  steamer  moved  slowly  outward 
bound.  We  all  knew  the  idyl  was  over  —  the  leaf 
was  turned. 

"There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain, 
But  when  youth  the  dream  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  charmed  life  of  the  memorable  winter  had 
made  it  difficult  to  feel  the  same  interest  in  the 
old  routine.  Romance  had  fled,  and  it  was  an  every 
day  world  again.  The  letters  from  London  had  an 
undertone  of  sadness.  One  felt  that  in  some  inde 
finable  way  the  going  was  not  wholly  a  success.  A 
few  months  later  the  cable  flashed  the  happy  news, 
"Thank  God,  all  is  well!  A  daughter!"  From  this 
time  a  more  cheerful  note  pervades  the  letters,  and 
there  is  much  of  little  Edwina  and  her  French 
nurse,  interspersed  with  graphic  descriptions  of  a 
dinner  or  a  tea,  and  the  celebrities  met. 

At  last,  after  a  year's  absence,  the  message,  so 
impatiently  hoped  for,  came  —  the  date  of  the 
home-coming.  There  is  an  undimmed  picture  in 
my  memory  of  the  Prince  and  his  sweet  wife  at  the 
hour  of  their  arrival  to  the  same  environment  of 
the  year  before.  How  like,  and  yet  how  unlike,  they 
looked.  A  certain  pose  of  sophistication  had  come 
to  both.  They  seemed  more  remote  from  the  magic 
air,  the  fields  Elysian.  Before  there  had  been  time 
to  realize  the  fact  that  they  were  actually  at  home 
again  a  card  was  handed  to  Mr,  Booth.  He  read  it 
aloud:  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Henry  Stoddard." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  13 

The  surprise  to  the  listener  was  unprecedented 
when  Mr.  Booth  said,  "Ask  them  to  come  up." 
Then  to  the  questioning  interrogation  of  a  face  he 
said,  "They  are  strangers  to  us,  but  close  friends 
to  Lorimer  Graham,  and  through  his  correspond 
ence  we  have  also  corresponded." 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  door,  and  in  answer  to 
the  deep- toned  enunciation  of  "Enter,"  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stoddard  came  in,  bringing  with  them,  un 
seen  by  all,  the  connecting  link  which  was  to  verify 
the  premonition  felt  by  this  young  girl  on  first  see 
ing  Mr.  Booth  upon  the  stage  two  years  before. 

Every  detail  of  that  hour  is  very  distinct.  The 
opening  door;  on  its  threshold  a  woman  of  angular 
slimness,  perhaps  forty-three  or  forty-four  years 
old.  She  wore  a  dull  brown  dress,  with  an  arabesque 
of  white  in  minute  pattern  woven  through  the  warp. 
The  expression  of  face  and  figure  was  withered  like 
a  brown  leaf  left  on  the  tree  before  the  snow  comes. 
No  aura  of  charm  whatever.  There  was  a  moment 
of  silence;  then  Mr.  Booth  with  outstretched  arms 
moved  quickly  toward  her,  and  in  his  hands  her 
hands  were  laid.  There  were  but  two  words  spoken, 
"Edwin,"  "Elizabeth."  Then  Mr.  Booth,  releasing 
her  hand,  slowly  untied  the  strings  of  the  bonnet 
that  shaded  her  face,  took  it  off,  and  still  holding 
it  in  his  hand  drew  her  to  a  chair. 

After  the  incident  of  this  dramatic  meeting,  when 


14  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Mr.  Stoddard  had  found  his  way  to  Mrs.  Booth 
and  was  speaking  to  her  in  lowered  tones,  the  two 
witnesses  of  this  strange  scene  felt  for  the  moment 
de  trop.  But  the  feeling  was  followed  a  minute  later 
by  the  certainty  that  they  were  not  de  trop,  but 
non-existent.  The  door  being  open,  wordless  and 
with  wonder  they  passed  from  this  electrical  at 
mosphere  into  saner  air. 

I  know  no  prototype  of  Mrs.  Stoddard  —  this 
singular  woman,  who  possessed  so  strongly  the 
ability  to  sway  all  men  who  came  within  her  in 
fluence.  Brilliant  and  fascinating,  she  needed  neither 
beauty  nor  youth,  her  power  was  so  much  beyond 
such  aids.  On  every  variety  of  subject  she  talked 
with  originality  and  ready  wit;  with  impassioned 
speech  expressing  an  individuality  and  insight  most 
unusual  and  rare.  A  few  days  after  this  first  meet 
ing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Booth  were  invited  to  the  Stod- 
dards'  to  meet  their  circle  of  literary  and  artistic 
friends. 

The  Stoddards  were  living  at  that  time  in  a  house 
on  Tenth  Street  where  they  had  been  for  many 
years,  occupying  rooms  up  one  flight  on  the  corner 
of  Fourth  Avenue.  Such  a  boarding-house  as  Miss 
Swift's  was  possible  in  the  early  sixties,  and  as  im 
possible  in  these  later  days.  It  was  said  that  there 
were  three  literary  centres  in  New  York  at  this 
time:  this  unique  house  in  Tenth  Street;  the  Bo- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  15 

Herman  circle  that  used  to  frequent  Pfaff's  beer 
cellar  in  Broadway;  the  third  was  the  Century 
Club  —  but  there  it  was  not  all  cakes  and  ale.  It 
was  rather  a  solemn  thing  to  belong  to  it.  The  new 
member  entered  its  (to  him)  inhospitable  door  with 
somewhat  the  same  feelings  that  would  have  rep 
resented  his  complex  mind  had  it  been  the  portal  of 
a  church.  The  chatelaine  of  the  Tenth  Street  house 
was  an  exceptional  and  interesting  character.  Her 
criticisms  and  discussion  of  current  matters  were 
admirable.  She  would  rather  run  the  risk  of  losing 
a  boarder  than  forego  the  privilege  of  speaking  her 
mind  freely  in  regard  to  every  issue  of  the  day.  She 
had  also  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  and  dearly  loved  a 
joke,  bringing  to  it  a  laugh  that  was  most  conta 
gious. 

Among  the  heterogeneous  company  of  men  and 
women  that  assembled  daily  at  her  table  she  num 
bered  authors,  actors,  artists,  musicians,  mathema 
ticians,  professors,  journalists,  critics,  and  essayists. 
To  Mrs.  Stoddard  alone,  however,  was  the  honor 
given  of  a  salon.  An  invitation  to  her  rooms  on  the 
evening  she  entertained  was  to  this  company  what 
a  ribbon  is  to  a  soldier,  and  prized  accordingly. 

It  was  to  this  salon  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Booth 
were  bidden.  The  tremulous  excitement  of  the  first 
meeting  with  the  Stoddards  had  not  yet  passed. 
And  for  the  guests  of  the  caravansary  in  Tenth 


16  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Street  the  desire  was  great  to  see  the  Prince  of 
players,  who  hitherto  had  been  as  inaccessible  to 
sight  and  touch  as  if  he  wore  the  iron  mask. 

To  the  two  who  were  not  invited  to  the  feast 
sadly  came  the  recognition  that  there  would  be  no 
dressing  the  bride  on  this  occasion.  A  French  dress 
and  a  French  maid  would  give  the  touches  which 
before  they  had  delighted  in.  No  confidences  would 
be  exchanged  as  to  the  evil  tendencies  of  unpro 
tected  limbs  in  evening  suits.  The  impalpable  bar 
rier  of  convention  had  intervened  and  changed 
their  world. 

The  next  morning  a  sleepy  eye  opening  to  the 
light  of  day  discovered  a  bit  of  white  paper  that 
had  been  slipped  under  the  door,  and  which  read 
something  in  this  wise:  "It  is  long  after  midnight; 
you  are  asleep;  no  light  showing  over  the  transom, 
and  no  heed  to  the  slight  knock  at  your  door.  Wake 
early,  and  come  to  breakfast  with  us  at  ten,  that 
we  may  tell  you  of  the  delightful  hours  of  last  eve 
ning.  Good-night  to  you,  dears,  from  Edwin  in  his 
cap  and  Mary  in  her  kerchief." 

Recollections  long  unstirred  give  back  the  day 
and  hour,  and  show  again  the  same  room  of  the 
year  before.  From  the  walls  hang  the  wonderful 
living  picture  of  life  and  death:  the  students  and 
the  master  —  Rembrandt's  "  Anatomy,"  looked 
down  upon  us.  In  the  shadow  of  the  heavy  curtain 


17 

at  the  window  we  see  the  picture  with  the  mourn 
ing  drapery  covering,  and  half  concealing,  the  casket 
of  King  Charles.  The  breakfast  table  this  time  is 
set  for  four;  the  sunlight  touching  and  retouching 
its  bit  of  silver  and  glass,  deepening  the  color  of  the 
Prince's  velvet  coat.  The  bearskin  rug  still  has  its 
place  in  front  of  the  open  fire.  But  in  place  of  guitar, 
cushion,  and  book,  it  is  a  monarch's  throne.  A 
sovereign  reigns  who  is  empress  of  all ;  her  minister 
of  state  a  bonne  in  her  cap.  Her  retinue  woolly  cats 
without  tails,  dogs  without  ears,  and  an  army  of 
Noah's  ark's  wonderful  things  half  hidden  in  the 
long  black  fur. 

With  the  coffee  came  the  pleasant  chat;  the 
word-portraits,  drawn  with  such  mastery  of  per 
ception  that  the  men  and  women  of  the  night  be 
fore  became  visual  and  breakfasted  with  us.  First 
for  guests  we  had  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor  and  his  young 
German  bride,  wearing  the  simple  black  dress  of 
the  German  frau;  the  lace  cap,  the  insignia  of  the 
new  dignity  of  wifehood,  covering  her  sunny  hair. 
Bayard's  "picture  in  little"  was  of  a  big,  genial, 
lovable  man,  an  immense  favorite  with  all,  full  of 
good-fellowship,  and  bubbling  over  with  gaiety  and 
cheer.  Next  came  Mr.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 
argumentative,  alert,  debonair.  Mrs.  Stedman  was 
sketched  in  black  and  white,  neutral  and  colorless. 
Stoddard,  a  poet  and  essayist.  Mrs.  Stoddard  too 


i8  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

scintillating  to  be  drawn.  Then  followed  the  "mob 
of  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen  who  wrote  with 
care."  After  them,  Fitz  Hugh  Ludlow,  a  writer  of 
good  stories,  and  a  smoker  of  hasheesh  —  seeing 
visions.  Mrs.  Ludlow's  picture  had  a  charm  all  its 
own  of  youth  and  beauty;  brown  hair,  brown  eyes, 
slight  figure,  tartan  plaid  dress  —  greens  and  blues 
in  happy  mixture,  with  a  final  touch  of  the  blue 
snood  that  bound  her  hair,  with  just  a  curl  or  two 
escaping.  Launt  Thompson,  a  sculptor  —  Mr.  Al- 
drich,  a  poet —  At  this  point  the  speaker  was 
suddenly  interrupted  —  a  voice  broke  in,  "  Do  you 
mean  the  poet,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  who  wrote 
the  beautiful  'Ballad  of  Babie  Bell'  ?  Wait.  I  think 
I  could  almost  paint  Mr.  Aldrich's  portrait  myself. 
I  know  his  poems  so  well  that  the  outward  sem 
blance  of  the  man  takes  shape,  visual  and  vitaliz 
ing  —  Mr.  Aldrich  must  be  a  man  about  thirty- 
five  years  old,  tall,  slender,  with  black  hair,  piercing 
eye,  pallid  face  stamped  with  melancholy,  which 
grief  for  the  death  of  that  child  and  its  mother 
must  have  indelibly  written  there  —  you  both 
must  remember  in  their  beauty  and  pathos  the 
last  lines  of  that  poem: 

"'We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow  — 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow,  — 
Wrapt  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers . . . 
And  thus  went  dainty  Baby  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours!' 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH  AT  NINETEEN 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  19 

"And  in  the  beginning  of  that  wonderful  poem, 
Mr.  Aldrich  tells  us  — 

'"The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Baby  came  from  Paradise.'" 

At  this  point  the  young  improvisatrice  was  in 
terrupted  by  a  strange  gurgling,  bubbling  noise 
that  sounded  very  like  suppressed  mirth.  There 
was  silence  for  a  minute,  and  then,  to  the  astonish 
ment  and  dismay  of  the  vivid  portrait-painter, 
hysterical  laughter,  which  would  leave  off  for  a 
moment  only  to  begin  anew.  Finally  the  Prince 
found  voice  to  say:  "In  poetry,  and  in  play  acting, 
nothing  is,  but  what  is  not.  Tom  Aldrich  does  not 
look  twenty;  he  is  short  and  blond  and  gay  and 
brilliant ;  never  had  a  wife,  never  had  a  child ;  never 
had  anything,  I  guess,  but  the  Muses,  and  poetical 
license." 

Soon  after  this  idealistic  episode  of  mistaken 
identity,  the  habitues  of  Mrs.  Stoddard's  salon  were 
invited  to  the  Booths'  for  an  evening;  and  to  the 
two  young  friends  was  given  the  pleasant  task  of 
assisting  Mrs.  Booth  in  receiving  the  distinguished 
guests.  It  would  be  useless  to  describe  the  tumult  of 
excitement  this  invitation  brought.  To  gaze  from 
afar  on  the  celestial  beings  who  wrote  books  had 
been  their  highest  aspiration.  But  to  touch  the  hand 
that  had  penned  words  that  burn  was  beyond  all 
imagining. 


20  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

New  York  at  this  time  was  in  the  throes  of  the 
Civil  War.  The  city  a  mass  of  national  colors;  flags 
waving,  battle-cries  sounding  from  every  pulpit; 
patriotism  rampant;  the  gold  lace  of  a  soldier  dear 
to  every  young  woman's  heart.  If,  unfortunately, 
she  was  without  brother  or  lover  to  send  to  the  front, 
her  scraping  of  linen  or  rolling  of  bandages  did  not 
count  among  her  compatriots.  She  had  nothing  to 
give  to  her  country.  The  night  before  the  culmina 
tion  of  this  wonderful  party,  to  the  younger  of  Mrs. 
Booth's  friends,  a  telegram  was  given;  it  read:  "Un 
expected  leave.  Am  coming  for  the  day"' — the 
signer  of  the  telegram  a  colonel  in  the  army,  half  her 
lover,  and  all  her  friend. 

For  Mrs.  Booth's  young  friend  the  following  day 
was  so  filled  with  stories  of  "  battles,  sieges,  for 
tunes,"  the  hours  passed  with  such  rapidity,  that 
the  evening  was  half  over  before  she  awoke  to  the 
consciousness  of  her  new  duties  in  the  world  of  poets 
and  scholars.  There  had  been  a  visit  made,  and  a 
walk  back  in  the  moonlight.  The  toilet  that  with 
girlish  delight  had  been  thought  over  and  planned 
could  not  now  be  made.  Nor  was  there  time  for 
broad,  intricate  braids  of  blonde  hair.  The  fair  hair 
had  been  parted,  drawn  close  to  the  face  to  fit  well 
with  the  poke  bonnet,  whose  azure  silk  lining  and 
feathers  contrasted  prettily  with  the  long  velvet 
cloak  and  elephant-colored  dress  she  wore.  The  bon- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  21 

net  with  its  becoming  light  blue  feathers  was  hastily 
taken  off;  the  velvet  cloak  slipped  from  her  shoul 
ders,  and  she  stood  revealed  —  a  slim,  blonde  girl  in 
mouse-colored  dress,  with  nothing  bright  about  her 
save  her  hair.  There  was  a  hurried  rush  through  the 
hall,  a  quick-beating  heart,  a  pause  for  breath  and 
courage,  the  door  slowly  opened  and  she  passed  to  a 
new  world  —  the  world  of  letters. 

How  well  memory  reproduces  that  scene;  the 
gaiety,  the  laughter,  the  hazy  atmosphere  —  for  the 
men  were  smoking ;  a  rap  on  the  table  for  attention ; 
a  funny  story  told ;  the  chaff,  the  repartee.  A  group 
of  two  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtain's  fold 
seemed  so  young  and  happy.  They  needed  "no 
guest  to  come  between.  They  needs  must  be  each 
other's  own  best  company."  The  shy  one,  who  was 
vainly  trying  to  talk  theism  with  a  graybeard, 
wished  she  might  go  over  and  join  them.  Just  then 
the  seneschal  passed.  There  was  a  little  tug  at  his 
coat  and  the  whisper,  "Show  me  Aldrich,  please." 
The  laughing  answer  came,  "  I  mount,  I  fly!"  And, 
unheedful  of  remonstrance,  flew.  There  were  inat 
tentive  ears  for  theism,  and  eager  eyes  for  the  senes 
chal  making  his  way  through  groups  of  friends,  until 
he  stopped  and  stood  before  the  happy  pair.  Mr. 
Aldrich  rose,  and  with  unequivocal  reluctance  fol 
lowed  his  host  to  where  the  mouse-colored  girl 
awaited  his  coming. 


22  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

There  was  no  doubtful  expression  in  the  way  his 
eyes  returned  to  his  one-time  neighbor.  There  was 
no  doubtful  expression  in  the  half-hearted  way  he 
tried  to  talk  with  the  wordless  being  beside  him.  It 
was  so  palpable  that  he  did  not  want  to  come;  it  was 
so  obvious  that  he  did  want  to  go.  Once  or  twice  he 
spoke  across  the  room  to  Mrs.  Ludlow,  for  that  was 
the  Dulcinea  who  had  entangled  him  in  the  meshes 
of  her  brown  hair.  The  wordless  one  sat  silent,  with 
mixed  emotions:  amusement,  surprise,  disappoint 
ment  —  for  there  had  been  knights  who  wore  her 
gages.  The  subtle  affinity  of  affection  soon  sent  a 
message  to  Mr.  Aldrich's  chum  to  come  to  the  res 
cue,  and  in  answer  to  it,  Mr.  Launt  Thompson  ap 
peared,  and  with  the  introduction  and  the  words, 
"Take  my  chair,  Launt,"  Mr.  Aldrich  bowed  to 
both  and  leisurely  sauntered  away. 

Supper  was  served  at  a  very  long  table,  gay  with 
flowers  and  lighted  with  huge  candelabra.  It  was  a 
new  experience  to  see  Mr.  Booth  as  a  host  at  such 
a  gathering.  Mrs.  Stoddard  sat  at  his  right  hand. 
There  was  much  clinking  of  glasses,  stories,  and 
drinking  of  healths;  but  Mr.  Booth's  glass  stood 
empty  through  the  evening. 

At  the  end  of  the  dinner  Mr.  Bierstadt,  who  at 
that  time  was  probably  the  most  talked-of  artist 
in  New  York,  rose,  and  after  asking  the  guests  to 
drink  once  more  the  health  of  host  and  hostess,  in- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  23 

vited  the  entire  company  there  assembled  to  honor 
him  with  their  presence  at  his  studio  a  fortnight 
from  that  date.  In  making  the  adieus  Mr.  Bierstadt 
said  to  Mrs.  Booth,  "Do  not  fail  to  bring  with  you 
to  the  studio  your  two  young  friends." 

Of  the  intervening  fortnight  there  are  vague  and 
confused  memories  of  small  teas  at  the  Stoddards' 
and  the  Booths';  calls  exchanged,  and  evenings 
passed  at  the  theatre;  the  three  no  longer  hidden  by 
the  curtains,  but  with  lights  turned  up,  and  frequent 
visitors  to  the  box.  My  memory  recalls  with  great 
distinctness  the  coming  of  Mr.  Parke  Godwin,  the 
son-in-law  of  Mr.  Bryant,  then  editing  one  of  the 
leading  papers  of  New  York.  There  were  times  when 
Mr.  Godwin  was  lacking  in  manner  and  manners. 
When  wholly  absorbed  in  a  subject  that  interested 
him,  he  took  no  responsibility  whatever  for  a  large 
body  that  often  assumed  questionable  shapes,  as  on 
this  occasion,  when  he  allowed  his  weary  limbs  to 
rest  on  the  seat  of  a  vacant  chair  in  the  most  con 
spicuous  part  of  the  box.  The  fertile  and  futile  at 
tempts  that  were  made  to  have  the  evening  wraps 
accidentally  fall  and  cover  them,  and  the  uncon 
scious  way  in  which  he,  finding  them  too  heavy  or 
too  warm,  would  remove  them  and  continue  with 
his  theme!  The  relief  when  the  green  curtain  went 
up  and  the  lights  were  lowered,  and  the  chair  with 
its  unwelcome  guests  was  invisible! 


24  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

When  the  Bierstadt  evening  came  and  there  was  a 
toilette  &  faire,  the  blonde  braids  were  broad  and  in 
tricate;  the  white  lace  fichu  was  held  by  a  bouquet  de 
corsage  of  violets  and  white  flowers.  The  blue  of  the 
dress  matched  the  color  of  the  eyes.  When  the  studio 
door  opened  and  the  little  party  came  in,  Mr.  Al- 
drich's  look  of  quick  surprise  was  not  without  a  cer 
tain  triumph  to  one  whose  ears  had  so  lately  been 
attuned  to  the  refrain  of  the  old  melody,  "Phillada 
flouts  me,  flouts  me."  On  this  evening  Mrs.  Ludlow 
was  without  her  cavalier. 

Mr.  Greenslet  in  his  "  Life"  of  Mr.  Aldrich  visual 
izes  him  as  he  was  at  this  time  with  such  accuracy 
that  the  words  become  as  a  glass  in  which  he  stands 
reflected : 

"Let  him  be  in  our  minds,  an  alert,  slender  young 
man,  with  clear,  steady  gray-blue  eyes,  and  crisp 
golden  hair;  let  us  imagine  his  witty,  winsome  man 
ner  with  its  slight  distinguishing  touch  of  Parnas 
sian  dignity,  and  we  shall  be  tolerably  acquainted 
with  the  'lovely  fellow'  of  his  friends'  recollection." 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  the  kaleidoscope  of  brilliant  lights  and  colors 
that  focus  in  memory  of  the  weeks  that  followed 
the  evening  in  Mr.  Bierstadt's  studio  are  the  nights 
at  the  theatre,  and  the  charming  men  and  women 
that  came  as  guests  to  Mrs.  Booth's  box,  Mr.  Al- 
drich  and  Mr.  Launt  Thompson  being  very  frequent 
ones. 

After  the  play  there  would  again  be  the  little  sup 
pers  in  Mr.  Booth's  rooms;  sometimes  other  friends, 
but  more  often  the  same  partie  carree  as  of  old ;  but 
now  we  "wear  our  rue  with  a  difference."  The 
Prince's  glass  no  longer  stands  empty  by  his  plate. 
The  enemy  that  men  put  into  their  mouths  to  steal 
away  their  brains  had  found  a  vulnerable  place  in 
his  armor;  the  strong  armor  that  Love  had  forged  in 
the  blaze  of  divine  fire.  With  the  invisible  spirit  of 
wine  another  unbidden  guest  lurked  in  the  shadows 
—  a  messenger  awaiting  the  faultless  one,  who  soon 
was  to  give  her  young  life  to  save  what  was  dearer 
than  life. 

During  this  engagement  of  Mr.  Booth's  New 
York  was  seething  in  the  indescribable  excitement 
of  the  war.  There  were  fewer  theatres  then  than 
now,  and  those  were  crowded  with  men  and  women 


26  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

anxious  to  forget  in  the  mimic  world  the  realities  of 
the  actual  one  in  which  they  lived.  Unfortunately, 
a  previous  engagement  had  been  made  for  Mr. 
Booth  for  a  short  season  in  Boston,  so  the  green  cur 
tain  must  be  rung  down,  and  the  crowded  and  bril 
liant  audience  that  nightly  had  sat  enthralled  by 
the  masterly  rendering  of  Shakespeare's  verse  was 
disbanded. 

For  the  last  days  before  the  flitting  there  linger 
vague  memories  of  detached  scenes  and  hours.  One 
scene  must  remain,  however,  always  distinct  and 
perfect.  The  quick  rap,  rap,  of  Mr.  Booth  at  the 
door,  and  the  breezy  entrance  of  the  happy  pair,  the 
Princess's  face  radiant  with  joy.  In  her  hand  she 
held  her  lover's  gift,  a  beautifully  painted  miniature 
of  himself.  Her  delight  in  her  new  possession  was  so 
deep  that  her  words  tumbled  in  expressing  it.  With  a 
light  laugh  at  her  incoherence  she  drew  his  face  close 
to  her  lips,  and  softly  came  the  murmur  of  Othello's 
words,  "O,  my  sweet,  I  prattle  out  of  fashion,  and  I 
dote  in  my  own  comfort." 

Then  the  picture  changes,  and  at  the  piano  sits 
the  lithe  figure  of  a  girl  in  a  dull  green  dress,  her  only 
ornament  a  beryl  brooch.  From  under  her  pliant 
fingers  the  exultant  music  of  Mendelssohn's  "Wed 
ding  March"  fills  the  room,  and  then  sudden  silence 
as  she  turns  and  says:  "When  Death  takes  you,  my 
best  beloved,  nothing  will  be  more  my  solace  than 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  27 

this  last  gift.  I  shall  wear  it  eternally  upon  my 
heart."  To  the  question  asked:  "Why  do  you  al 
ways  think  and  speak  of  Mr.  Booth  as  being  the  one 
to  go? "  quickly  the  answer  came:  "  Death  could  not 
be  so  cruel  as  to  take  me  from  him.  He  needs  me  — 
he  needs  me  so!"  And  then,  close  in  his  arms, 
through  tears,  her  fervent  prayer:  "Almighty  God, 
Merciful  Father,  for  Jesus'  sake  spare  him  the  cross! 
Take  him  first,  I  do  beseech  Thee!" 

It  was  a  gray  and  ominous  morning  the  day  of  the 
departure  for  Boston.  The  depression  of  the  weather 
seemed  almost  contagious  to  the  four  who  shared 
its  gloom.  At  the  last  moment,  Marie,  the  French 
nurse,  had  without  permission  fled  to  confession  at  a 
neighboring  church,  leaving  her  charge  in  her  crib, 
undressed  and  asleep.  When  the  carriage  for  the  sta 
tion  was  announced,  and  the  baby  sent  for,  there  was 
a  darkened  room,  a  sleeping  child,  and  apparently 
no  preparation  for  a  journey.  There  was  no  time  for 
inaction;  the  baby  was  hurried  up,  wrapped  in  its 
crib  blankets,  its  clothes  crowded  into  a  bag,  and  as 
the  carriage  door  closed,  Marie  was  seen  running 
toward  it,  her  sins,  let  us  hope,  shrived  and  forgiven. 

Although  this  visit  to  Boston  was  expected  to  be 
but  two  weeks  in  duration,  there  were  neither  sun 
shine  nor  smiles  in  the  adieus.  Sadly  we  waved  our 
kisses  as  the  carriage  moved  slowly  away,  sadly 
were  they  returned.  Far  from  our  thoughts  was  the 


28  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

knowledge  that,  for  us,  it  was  the  last  look  upon  the 
face  that  had  grown  so  dear. 

Before  the  allotted  two  weeks  passed  a  letter  came 
from  Mrs.  Booth  bearing  sad  tidings,  with  the  re 
quest  that  their  Lares  and  Penates  should  be  packed, 
and  their  rooms  of  happy  memories  dismantled.  The 
doctor  had  ordered  for  her  a  life  more  free  from  ex 
citement.  A  house  had  been  taken  in  the  country 
near  to  Boston,  and  there,  with  the  exception  of  an 
engagement  of  six  weeks  in  New  York,  would  be 
their  home  for  an  indefinite  stay.  The  letter  was  sad, 
and  between  the  lines  one  read  that  all  was  not  well, 
and  could  but  love  more  the  wise  and  tender  heart, 
who,  with  fine  tact,  and  in  so  natural  a  way,  had 
safeguarded  and  kept  as  much  as  possible  from 
temptation  the  lovely  nature  given  to  her  care;  who 
conquered  daily  more  than  a  city  in  conquering  an 
inherited  tendency  that  burnt  in  his  blood  with 
fever  heat.  He  had  said  once,  when  haggard  and 
pale  he  walked  the  room:  "Since  daylight  I  have 
not  slept.  No  one  can  imagine  the  call  of  that  desire. 
When  it  engulfs  me,  I  could  sell  my  soul,  my  hope  of 
salvation,  for  just  one  glass."  Strong  Love  held  him 
—  Love  glorified  was  to  be  his  savior. 

After  the  departure  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Booth  there 
were  occasional  invitations  to  tea  at  the  Stoddards', 
and  occasional  meetings  of  the  new  artistic  and 
literary  friends.  An  idolized  brother  of  Mrs.  Stod- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  29 

dard,  Major  Wilson  Barstow,  on  the  staff  of  General 
Dix,  wounded,  and  home  on  sick-leave,  was  much 
in  evidence.  Gold  lace  and  brass  buttons  in  the  six 
ties  took  precedence  over  civilian  suits.  Mr.  Aldrich 
also  came  frequently.  He  was  at  that  time  doing 
editorial  work  on  the  "Illustrated  News."  There  is 
a  momentary  picture  of  him,  describing  to  his  hostess 
the  tribulation  and  dismay  of  a  helpless  editor  when 
the  proprietor  of  his  journal  comes  to  him  with  a 
foot-rule  in  his  hand,  and  demands  an  editorial  of 
seven  inches  and  three  quarters  —  no  more  nor  less 
—  as  he  has  measured  the  space  on  a  blank  sheet 
of  paper  and  thinks  the  proportion  looks  well !  Years 
later,  another  proprietor  —  this  time  a  titled  one 
of  London  —  wrote,  asking  a  contribution  for  his 
journal,  a  sonnet  preferred,  not  to  exceed  a  page,  or 
a  page  and  a  half! 

The  six  weeks'  engagement  of  Mr.  Booth  was  to 
begin  in  New  York  on  February  9,  1863.  The  days 
so  eagerly  counted  that  intervened  were  now  few, 
and  when  those  had  passed  and  the  new  day  come, 
all  the  rosebuds  should  be  gathered.  For  this  engage 
ment  Mr.  Booth  had  taken  an  apartment  near  the 
theatre,  and  almost  at  the  moment  when  their 
young  friends  were  planning  what  flowers  and  fruit 
should  be  there  to  welcome  the  arrival,  a  letter  came 
with  the  Boston  postmark,  bringing,  before  the  seal 
was  broken,  a  foreboding  of  disappointment.  The 


30  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

letter  was  from  Mrs.  Booth.  In  some  way  she  had 
strained  a  tendon.  The  doctor  and  Mr.  Booth  so 
urgently  insisted  the  need  of  absolute  rest  for  it, 
that  at  last  she  had  yielded,  and  Mr.  Booth  would 
come  without  her  for  the  first  weeks.  Then  followed 
the  despairing  moan:  "I  send  him  to  you.  Oh,  take 
care  of  him,  take  care  of  him,  for  my  sake!"  Then 
they  knew. 

Close  as  the  friendship  was,  there  had  always  been 
reticence  upon  one  subject.  Never  but  once  or  twice 
at  the  most  had  it  been  spoken  of  between  them. 
The  few  times  the  condition  was  so  obvious  that  it 
could  not  be  gainsaid,  his  sweet  defender,  his  "fair 
warrior,"  said,  "Alas,  Mr.  Booth  is  not  well  to-day." 
Once  she  spoke  of  the  pathetic  repentance  that  al 
ways  followed;  his  abasement  at  her  feet  for  his 
broken  vows;  his  prayer  for  forgiveness.  Soon  after 
the  letter  Mr.  Booth  came.  He  brought  for  his 
young  friends  tickets  for  all  the  performances  of 
the  week;  but  the  box,  which  had  become  almost  a 
"possessive  case,"  was  given  to  Mrs.  Stoddard. 

In  Mr.  Booth's  manner  there  was  a  nervous  ex 
citement  —  an  expression  in  the  eye  unstable  and 
flitting.  In  a  strange  way  he  seemed  as  if  he  stood  in 
a  world,  companionless,  the  invisible  supports  of 
life  withdrawn.  He  touched  in  that  week  in  his  act 
ing,  all  the  gamut  —  the  scale  of  good,  bad,  indif 
ferent,  magnificent.  But,  with  however  little  interest 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  31 

he  played  his  part,  there  was  always,  as  Mr.  Clapp 
recalls  with  delight,  the  purity  of  his  enunciation, 
the  elegant  correctness  of  his  pronunciation  —  his 
absolute  mastery  of  the  music  and  meaning  of 
Shakespeare's  verse. 

Through  the  week  there  had  been  vague  and 
startling  rumors,  half  suppressed ;  but  not  until  the 
beginning  of  the  next  week  did  they  take  definite 
form.  When  Mr.  Booth  was  not  at  the  theatre  he 
could  always  be  found  at  Mrs.  Stoddard's  rooms 
on  Tenth  Street.  Many  were  the  councils  held  there, 
sub  rosa,  as  to  the  mode  of  procedure  that  could 
protect  him.  The  protection  to  be  done  with  so 
much  tact,  and  in  such  a  natural  way,  that  the  pro 
tected  would  feel  it  accidental.  For,  notwithstanding 
the  sweetness  and  simplicity  of  Mr.  Booth's  nature, 
he  carried  always  about  him  "  the  divinity  that  doth 
hedge  a  king." 

Mr.  Aldrich  and  Mr.  Thompson  were  the  two 
knights  that  threw  the  glove  and  entered  the  field ; 
their  code  to  be:  inseparable  companionship;  never 
two,  always  one.  Curious  and  devious  were  the  ways 
devised  to  elude  this  unwelcome  chaperonage  —  for 
Mr.  Booth  found  himself  helpless  in  a  net  that  was 
woven  so  closely  with  affectionate  words,  the  joy  of 
his  companionship  so  great,  that  his  knight  brooked 
no  separation  either  day  or  night.  Only  once  for  a 
moment  was  the  mask  lifted.  Mr.  Aldrich  was  on 


32  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

duty  in  the  dressing-room;  his  host  full  of  sugges 
tions  of  tempting  and  pleasant  things  in  front  of 
the  footlights;  the  unbidden  guest  loudly  protesting 
his  greater  pleasure  in  the  present  companionship 
of  his  valued  friend.  At  this  point  the  true  inward 
ness  of  Mr.  Booth's  desire  to  be  alone  appeared  with 
a  messenger  boy,  who  brought  on  a  tray  a  suspicious- 
looking  beverage.  Mr.  Booth,  with  a  furtive  look 
toward  his  chargi  d'affaires,  advanced  toward  the 
tempter;  but  before  his  hand  touched  it  a  swifter 
hand  had  taken  it;  the  two  men  looked  at  each 
other,  and  subterfuge  was  over.  Mr.  Aldrich  went 
to  the  window  and  emptied  the  glass.  Neither  spoke, 
nor  was  the  incident  ever  alluded  to  between  them. 
Through  the  remainder  of  that  evening,  excepting 
the  necessary  directions  to  the  dresser,  all  was  si 
lence.  Mr.  Aldrich  went  with  him  to  the  wings,  and 
waited  there  for  him  until  his  part  was  over.  When 
the  play  was  finished,  in  the  same  unbroken  silence 
the  squire  and  his  knight  left  the  theatre  together. 
The  squire  with  rapid  gait  selected  the  point  of 
compass  that  would  lead  farthest  from  home.  There 
followed  almost  exactly  the  sequence  of  events  that 
had  been  enacted  years  before,  when  Edwin  Booth 
was  a  lad  and  was  given  the  arduous  task  of  watch 
ing  and  caring  for  the  health  and  safety  of  his  ec 
centric  father.  Sleepless  nights  and  lonely  days  were 
not  the  proper  lot  of  boyhood. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  33 

In  the  life  of  the  elder  Booth,  Mrs.  Clarke  says 
that  in  Louisville,  after  the  night's  performance,  Mr. 
Booth  started  for  home;  but  moved  by  a  sudden 
impulse  he  changed  his  mind,  preferring  to  walk 
the  streets  alone.  In  vain  Edwin  tried  to  persuade 
him  to  go  to  a  hotel  and  rest.  Mr.  Booth,  finding  that 
his  son  would  not  leave  him,  darted  off  in  a  contrary 
direction,  and  walked  rapidly  until  he  came  to  a 
long  covered  market,  which  he  entered,  and  began 
pacing  up  and  down  from  one  end  of  the  place  to 
the  other.  Their  walk  was  kept  up  without  pause 
until  daylight.  Edwin  soon  became  exhausted  with 
fatigue,  but  his  father,  seemingly  untired,  would  at 
times  slacken  his  pace  abruptly,  then  start  off  with 
increasing  rapidity;  Edwin  falling  in  with  his  gait 
as  it  changed,  sometimes  angry,  and  again  ready  to 
laugh  at  the  ludicrousness  of  the  situation.  Not  a 
syllable  had  been  spoken  by  either  when  the  elder 
pedestrian  was  at  last  silently  impelled  to  go  home 
to  his  bed. 

At  this  later  day,  when  almost  the  same  history 
repeated  itself,  it  was  not  until  the  daylight  came 
that  Hamlet  retraced  his  steps  toward  the  hotel, 
where  Mr.  Aldrich,  still  in  unbroken  silence,  shared 
with  him  the  "royal  couch  of  Denmark." 

The  next  morning  "Richard  was  himself  again." 
No  surprise  shown  at  the  presence  of  his  unbidden 
guest  —  no  allusion  made  to  the  night  before. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  the  second  day  of  this  last  week,  over  which 
the  clouds  were  lowering  with  deepest  gloom, 
the  little  band  of  conspirators  met  again  in  the 
Stoddards'  rooms,  where  they  were  unexpectedly 
joined  by  John  Wilkes  Booth;  young,  handsome, 
gay,  full  of  the  joy  of  life ;  no  tragedy  there ;  visibly 
embodying  the  line,  "My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly 
in  his  throne."  He  had  just  arrived  from  Boston.  He 
said  that  two  days  before  he  left,  Mrs.  Booth  had 
suggested  that,  as  she  would  be  alone  again,  she 
should  go  to  the  city  and  ask  a  friend  to  return  with 
her. 

There  had  been  a  snowstorm,  a  delay  in  the  horse- 
car,  and  standing  on  the  snow  she  had  waited  for  it 
and  taken  cold.  On  her  return  to  the  house  she  said 
to  the  maid:  "  Take  me  upstairs  and  put  me  to  bed. 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  be  warm  again."  In  some 
untranslatable  way  over  the  invisible  wires  the  call 
was  heard.  After  her  death  Mr.  Booth  in  a  letter  to 
Captain  Badeau  writes:  "I  lay  awake  and  I  dis 
tinctly  heard  these  words,  'Come  to  me,  darling, 
I'm  almost  frozen!'  as  plainly  as  I  hear  this  pen 
scratching  over  the  paper.  It  made  a  strong  im 
pression  on  me,  the  voice  was  so  sad  and  imploring." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  35 

In  the  night  Mrs.  Booth  wakened  in  very  great 
pain,  and  for  two  days  suffered  intensely.  The  letter, 
however,  brought  from  her  was  reassuring.  She  said 
the  crisis  was  passed,  that  Mr.  Booth  must  have  no 
uneasiness,  that  all  she  needed  was  freedom  from 
pain,  and  rest,  and  on  no  account  must  his  engage 
ment  be  interrupted  by  her  illness. 

The  following  night  Mr.  Booth  eluded  his  watcher. 
The  situation  became  so  serious  that  the  next  day 
Mrs.  Stoddard  wrote  to  Mrs.  Booth: 

"  Sick  or  well,  you  must  come.  Mr.  Booth  has  lost 
all  restraint  and  hold  on  himself.  Last  night  there 
was  the  grave  question  of  ringing  down  the  curtain 
before  the  performance  was  half  over.  Lose  no  time. 
Come." 

What  a  sad  picture  the  mind  portrays  of  the  com 
ing  of  that  letter.  The  sick-room;  held  up  in  the 
nurse's  arms  the  pale  and  fragile  form,  the  trembling 
hand  that  writes  with  wavering  lines  the  pathetic 
words: 

"I  cannot  come.  I  cannot  stand.  I  think  some 
times  that  only  a  great  calamity  can  save  my  dear 
husband.  I  am  going  to  try  and  write  to  him  now, 
and  God  give  me  grace  to  write  as  a  true  wife 
should." 

When  all  was  over,  Mr.  Booth  found  Mrs.  Stod 
dard 's  cruel  letter.  It  was  never  forgiven;  and  with 
the  finding  the  ties  of  past  friendship  broke. 


36  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

The  evening  after  the  writing  of  the  letter  Mrs. 
Booth's  illness  assumed  so  serious  a  form  that  an 
other  physician  was  hastily  summoned  for  consulta 
tion.  His  verdict  was:  "Too  late.  The  end  is  near." 
Mrs.  Booth  had  asked  the  result  and  was  gently 
told  the  truth.  Accepting  it  with  quiet  submission, 
she  only  asked  that  they  would  try  to  hold  the  spirit 
until  Edwin  came,  that  the  lips  he  loved  might  be 
the  ones  to  tell  him  the  tragic  fate  that  had  befallen 
and  help  him  bear  the  appointed  sorrow. 

All  through  that  night  she  watched  and  waited, 
holding  with  her  will  her  spirit's  flight  until  the  day 
light  came.  Then  she  rendered  back  to  God  her 
faultless  spirit. 

On  this  sombre  night,  when  happiness  died  for 
Mr.  Booth,  he  was  playing  fitfully,  and  only  half 
himself;  his  dressing-table  covered  with  telegrams, 
notes,  letters,  souvenirs  —  valuable  and  otherwise. 
Sometimes  the  letters  were  read,  but  more  often 
swept  into  the  waste-basket  with  seals  unbroken. 
Never  was  there  an  actor  who  had  such  an  extrava 
gant  following  of  adulation  —  never  one  to  whom, 
apparently,  it  was  so  indifferent. 

Late  in  the  evening  another  telegram  was  brought 
to  the  theatre,  and  with  its  unbroken  seal  laid  with 
the  others  that  had  preceded  it.  When  the  play  was 
over,  and  Mr.  Stoddard,  who  was  on  guard  that 
night,  was  urging  Mr.  Booth,  who  sat  stoical  and 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  37 

dumb,  to  go  home  with  him,  the  manager  of  the 
theatre  entered  with  an  open  telegram  in  his  hand ; 
it  read: 

"This  is  the  fourth  telegram.  Why  does  not  Mr. 
Booth  answer?  He  must  come  at  once,"  signed  by 
the  physician.  On  the  table  still  lay,  with  unbroken 
seals,  the  three  missives  of  evil  omen. 

The  midnight  train  had  left.  There  was  nothing 
until  seven  o'clock  the  next  morning.  Nothing  to  do 
but  wait  the  slow  passing  of  the  hours.  All  through 
that  night  Mrs.  Stoddard  made  coffee  for  him  over 
an  alcohol  lamp  as  he  slowly  paced  the  floor;  one 
moment  refusing  to  believe  his  wife  could  be  so 
seriously  ill  —  the  next,  crushed  and  hopeless  with 
grief. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  winter  morning  Mr.  Booth 
and  Mr.  Stoddard  started  on  the  journey.  In  a  let 
ter,  written  later  to  Captain  Badeau,  Mr.  Booth 
said:  "When  I  was  in  the  cars  1  saw  every  time  I 
looked  from  the  window  Mary  dead,  with  a  white 
cloth  tied  round  her  neck  and  chin.  I  did  not  find 
her  so  exactly,  nor  in  the  position  I  saw  her  from 
the  window,  but  I  saw  her  as  distinctly,  a  dozen 
times  at  least,  as  I  saw  her  when  I  arrived  —  dead, 
and  in  her  coffin." 

On  the  arrival  of  the  train  in  Boston  a  friend  with 
his  carriage  waited  the  coming.  As  the  friend  moved 
toward  him  Mr.  Booth  raised  his  hand,  saying,  "Do 


190103 


38  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

not  tell  me,  I  know."  During  the  drive  to  the  coun 
try  house  not  one  word  was  spoken.  When  the  car 
riage  stopped,  Mr.  Booth  sprang  from  it,  passed 
rapidly  up  the  stairs,  paused  a  moment  at  the  bed 
room  door,  opened  it  —  those  waiting  heard  the  key 
turned  in  the  lock,  and  through  the  long  hours  of  the 
night  there  was  no  other  sound.  What  took  place 
behind  those  closed  doors  is  sacred;  even  thought 
itself  should  enter  veiled.  In  that  holy  sanctuary, 
beside  his  recumbent  dead,  the  only  witness  to  the 
agony,  the  struggle,  the  repentance,  the  renunci 
ation.  When  the  morning  came,  the  dragon  of  men 
acing  evil  lay  vanquished  forever  at  his  feet. 

When  in  the  half  light  of  the  coming  day  Mr. 
Booth  came  from  the  room,  the  ghost  of  what  had 
been,  it  was  like  the  passing  of  Raphael's  Saint 
Michael  —  so  triumphant  was  face  and  figure.  The 
watcher  entering  the  room  later  saw  on  the  face  of 
the  dead  no  longer  pain  nor  grief;  in  their  place  sat 
"gentle  Peace."  In  the  lifeless  hand  a  rose  was 
crushed,  and  on  the  breast,  held  by  a  slender  thread 
of  gold,  the  miniature  to  rest  forever  on  the  truest 
heart. 

No  tribute  can  express  more  truthfully  the  un 
usual  loveliness  of  this  rare  nature,  whose  little  life 
dream  rounded  so  with  sleep,  ending  on  earth  with 
her  twenty-second  year,  than  Dr.  Thomas  Wr 
Parsons  has  in  his  lines: 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  39 

MARY  BOOTH 

What  shall  we  do  now,  Mary  being  dead, 
Or  say,  or  write,  that  shall  express  the  half? 

What  can  we  do,  but  pillow  the  fair  head 
And  let  the  springtime  write  her  epitaph. 

As  it  will  soon  in  snowdrop,  violet, 
Wind  flower  and  columbine  and  maiden's  tear; 

Each  letter  of  that  pretty  alphabet 
That  spells  in  flowers  the  pageant  of  the  year. 

She  was  a  maiden  for  a  man  to  love; 

She  was  a  woman  for  a  husband's  life; 
One  that  had  learnt  to  value  far  above 

The  name  of  Love,  the  sacred  name  of  Wife. 

Her  little  life  dream  rounded  so  with  sleep, 
Had  all  there  is  of  life  —  except  gray  hairs, 

Hope,  love,  trust,  passion,  and  devotion  deep  — 
And  that  mysterious  tie  a  mother  bears. 

She  hath  fulfilled  her  promise,  and  hath  passed; 

Set  her  down  gently  at  the  iron  door ; 
Eyes  look  on  that  loved  image  for  the  last, 

Now  cover  it  with  earth  —  her  earth  no  more. 

Mrs.  Booth  was  buried  in  Mt.  Auburn  quietly, 
and  as  she  would  have  wished,  without  display. 
Among  the  little  group  of  relations  and  friends  who 
stood  beside  the  grave  was  Mr.  Booth's  mother,  and 
John  Wilkes  Booth,  Mr.  William  Warren,  Mrs.  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  Dr.  T.  W.  Parsons,  and  a  few  others 
who  loved  her  well.  Later  when  a  tablet  was  placed 
over  the  mound,  Dr.  Parsons  wrote  the  epitaph: 


40  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

"The  handful  here,  that  once  was  Mary's  earth, 
Held,  while  it  breathed,  so  beautiful  a  soul, 

That,  when  she  died,  all  recognized  her  birth, 
And  had  their  sorrow  in  serene  control. 

'"Not  here!  not  here!'  to  every  mourner's  heart 
The  wintry  wind  seemed  whispering  round  her  bier; 

And  when  the  tomb-door  opened,  with  a  start 
We  heard  it  echoed  from  within  —  'Not  here!' 

"Shouldst  thou,  sad  pilgrim,  who  mayst  hither  pass, 
Note  in  these  flowers  a  delicater  hue, 

Should  spring  come  earlier  to  this  hallowed  grass, 
Or  the  bee  later  linger  on  the  dew, 

"  Know  that  her  spirit  to  her  body  lent 
Such  sweetness,  grace,  as  only  goodness  can, 

That  even  her  dust,  and  this  her  monument, 
Have  yet  a  spell  to  stay  one  lonely  man  — 

"  Lonely  through  life,  but  looking  for  the  day 
When  what  is  mortal  of  himself  shall  sleep, 

When  human  passion  shall  have  passed  away, 
And  Love  -no  longer  be  a  thing  to  weep." 

The  life  that  fottowed  in  the  next  few  months  in 
this  deserted  house  fay  the  bereaved  and  lonely 
master  is  faintly  sketched  in  some  of  the  letters  he 
wrote  to  his  nearest  friends.  Passages  have  been 
taken  from  these  letters  to  read  as  one,  but  it  is  the 
heart  of  many. 

"She  was  to  me  at  once,  wife,  mother,  sister, 
guide,  and  savior.  All  is  dark.  I  know  not  where  to 
turn,  how  to  direct  the  deserted  vessel  now.  Two 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  41 

little  tiny  years,  and  the  bright  future  is  a  dark  and 
dismal  past.  I  have  no  ambition,  no  one  to  please. 
My  acting  was  studied  to  please  her,  and  after  I  left 
the  theatre  and  we  were  alone  her  advice  was  all  I 
asked,  all  I  valued.  If  she  was  pleased,  I  was  satis 
fied  ;  if  not,  I  felt  a  spur  to  urge  me  on.  They  tell  me 
that  time  and  use  will  soften  the  blow.  God  forbid ! 
My  grief  is  sweet  to  me.  It  is  a  part  of  her.  Were  I 
to  live  a  thousand  years,  I  would  ask  no  greater 
blessing  than  to  mourn  for  her.  In  this  once  happy 
home  I  see  on  every  hand  remembrances  of  her  — 
her  sewing,  her  dresses  —  all  are  a  part  of  her,  and 
every  corner  brings  her  back.  As  I  wake  at  night 
and  look  for  her  in  the  darkness,  I  hold  my  breath 
and  listen,  and  fancy  I  can  hear  her  speak  —  away 
somewhere.  Every  time  the  door  opens  I  expect  to 
see  the  loved  form  of  her  who  was  my  world.  Every 
day  now  seems  endless.  The  nights  seem  lengthened 
into  a  century.  I  am  in  such  haste  to  reach  that  be 
ginning  or  that  end  of  all,  that  I  am  chafed  and 
breathless  with  my  own  impatience.  I  regard  death 
as  God  has  intended  we  should  understand  it  —  as 
the  breaking  of  eternal  daylight,  and  a  birthday  of 
the  soul.  I  have  always  thought  of  death  as  coolly 
as  sleep,  and  gladly  would  I  take  that  sleep  were  I 
permitted.  Believe  in  one  great  truth,  God  is  —  and 
as  surely  as  you  and  I  are  flesh  and  bones,  so  are  we 
also  spirits  eternal.  While  she  was  here  I  was  shut 


42  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

up  in  her  devotion,  I  never  dreamed  she  could  be 
taken  from  me  —  as  I  have  ever  lived,  so  live  I 
now,  within." 

The  weeks  following  the  death  of  his  wife  Mr. 
Booth  was  on  the  narrow  line  between  sanity  and 
insanity;  a  strange  delirium  held  him  in  its  clutch. 
Much  of  the  time  he  was  as  Hamlet  —  with  the 
"antic  disposition"  of  variable  moods  of  black  de 
spair,  hysterical  laughter,  and  tears. 

Here  in  this  lonely  house,  with  his  world  of 
shadows,  we  must  leave  our  Prince,  and  turn  the 
page  to  the  other  actors  in  this  life's  history. 


CHAPTER  V 

FROM  the  evening  in  Mr.  Bierstadt's  studio  Mr, 
Aldrich  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  his  feel 
ings  toward  the  girl  he  had  met  there.  His  downfall 
was  so  rapid  and  precipitous  that  the  girl  herself 
refused  to  accept  it  seriously,  using  all  the  finesse  in 
her  nature  to  fence  with  the  edged  tools  laid  at  her 
feet,  her  youthful  mind  having  been  taught  the 
foolish  maxim  that  love  that  would  prove  real  was 
the  flower  sprung  from  the  plant  of  a  slow  growth. 

The  evening  of  Mrs.  Booth's  death  Mr.  Aldrich 
had  written  asking  the  privilege  of  an  hour  in  her 
company,  expressing  also  the  hope  that  he  might 
look  forward  to  a  cup  of  tea,  and  toast  made  by  her 
over  the  cheer  of  the  living-room  fire.  The  plan  had 
been  made  for  that  evening  to  be  passed  at  the 
theatre.  Although  through  the  week  there  had  been 
but  the  antithesis  of  pleasure  in  being  there,  the 
respite  from  nervous  tension  would  be  grateful, 
even  if  something  only  half  as  delightful  as  the  ex 
pected  visitor  had  been  offered  in  its  place.  Nothing 
was  said  of  the  expected  caller  to  her  companions 
who,  with  the  parental  advice  to  "go  to  bed  early," 
left  her  seemingly  absorbed  in  her  books. 

When  Mr.  Aldrich  came,  she  saw  in  the  manner  of 


44  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

his  greeting  that  neither  coquetry  nor  finesse  would 
prove  her  shield.  The  question  would  be  put  to  the 
test,  "to  win  or  lose  it  all." 

"The  winged  hours  of  bliss"  that  evening  passed 
much  too  quickly  for  the  happy  lovers.  Once  in  the 
midst  of  gay  and  joyous  laughter  a  sudden  silence 
fell,  bringing  with  it  a  nameless  fear.  May  it  not  be 
possible  that  the  soul  then  awaiting  its  final  flight 
came  for  a  moment  with  its  valediction? 

The  evening  was  nearly  over  before  the  petition 
came  for  the  cup  of  tea  and  the  toast.  With  a  long 
toasting-fork  over  the  open  fire  the  toast  was  made, 
the  tea  brewed,  the  little  table  set, 

"And  she  and  I  the  banquet  scene  completing 
With  dreamy  weeds,  and  very  pleasant  eating!" 

The  next  morning  a  note  from  Mrs.  Stoddard 
brought  the  appalling  word  of  Mrs.  Booth's  death. 

This  intelligence  was  for  the  young  betrothed  her 
first  awakening  to  the  discipline  and  sorrow  of  the 
world.  Love  and  Death  in  such  close  kinship  proved 
strong  allies  in  weaving  the  invisible  thread  in  the 
web  of  the  new  life,  seen  through  Love's  betrothal 
ring,  and  bringing  to  it  a  deeper  meaning. 

In  the  quiet  days  before  the  announcement  of  the 
engagement  there  was  much  to  be  learned  of  Mr. 
Aldrich's  life  prior  to  the  hour  of  their  happy  meet 
ing.  The  sketcl.es  of  his  boyish  days  when  he  lived 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  45 

with  his  grandfather  in  the  "Nutter  House"  in 
Portsmouth  were  a  never-failing  delight  to  his 
listener. 

When  Mr.  Aldrich  was  a  lad  of  fourteen  his  father 
died,  and  soon  after  he  went  to  New  York  to  take 
a  clerkship  in  his  uncle's  banking  house.  His  days 
there  were  given  to  the  perplexities  of  uncongenial 
work,  the  nights  spent  with  his  tutor  in  the  work  he 
delighted  in,  studies  and  books,  with  now  and  then 
time  taken  for  occasional  verses,  to  be  written  and 
printed  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  the  "Portsmouth 
Journal." 

After  a  struggle  of  four  years  in  the  alien  company 
of  algebraical  calculations,  with  the  Muse  constantly 
intruding  herself  and  visualizing  her  presence  on 
odd  corners  of  billheads  and  papers,  the  day  of  re 
nunciation  came,  when,  taking  the  cumbersome 
ledgers  in  his  arms  and  depositing  them  on  his 
uncle's  desk,  he  declared  that  henceforth  his  sole 
allegiance  would  be  to  the  Muse,  and  that  no  longer 
would  he  endeavor  to  serve  two  masters.  From  this 
ultimatum  there  were  loud  expostulations,  indig 
nation  and  disappointment  as  well;  for  the  uncle 
had  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  business  cares 
might  weigh  too  heavily  and  the  burden  be  shifted 
to  younger  shoulders.  When  the  battle  was  finally 
over,  Mr.  Aldrich  and  his  Goddess  went  sorrowfully 
homewards.  He  had  chosen. 


46  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

"  But  thou,  rare  soul,  thou  hast  dwelt  with  me, 

Spirit  of  Poesy!  Thou  divine 
Breath  of  the  morning,  thou  shalt  be 
Goddess,  forever  and  ever  mine." 

41  At  this  time  Mr.  Aldrich  was  nineteen  years  old. 
He  had  published  his  first  volume  of  verse,  written 
a  poem  which  gained  almost  at  once  a  national  ce 
lebrity,  and  resigned  his  place  in  his  uncle's  count 
ing-room,  to  follow  the  life  of  letters." 

A  few  months  later  in  the  year  Mr.  Nathaniel 
Parker  Willis,  who  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  his 
fame,  invited  Mr.  Aldrich  to  the  assistant  editorship 
of  the  "Home  Journal,"  an  office  that  had  previ 
ously  been  filled  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  and  more 
recently  by  James  Parton.  Very  graphic  were  the 
word-pictures  Mr.  Aldrich  made  of  this  slender 
youth,  sitting  in  state  in  the  editorial  chair,  and  of 
the  painful  mortification  caused  by  the  perversity 
of  his  golden  hair,  which  would  curl  when  the  day 
was  damp  or  warm,  giving  to  him  a  look  of  boyish 
ness  most  ill-adapted  to  the  new  dignity.  Very  de 
lightful  were  his  reminiscences  of  visits  made  at 
Idlewild,  Mr.  Willis's  home  on  the  Hudson  River, 
and  of  seeing  there  the  fair  daughter,  Imogene,  a 
blonde  of  the  purest  Saxon  type,  with  blue  eyes, 
light  brown  hair,  and  delicate,  regular  features. 
Mr.  Willis  said  she  was  very  like  her  mother,  who 
he  thought  when  he  first  saw  her  was  the  loveliest 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  47 

girl  he  had  ever  seen,  and  that  after  a  week's 
acquaintance  he  had  made  her  an  offer  of  marriage, 
and  was  accepted.  The  intimate  companionship 
with  his  chief,  who  at  this  time  was  about  fifty 
years  old,  was  vital  in  interest  and  charm.  Mr. 
Willis  from  early  youth  was  a  figure  of  importance, 
both  in  the  literary  and  social  world.  Professor  Peck 
in  writing  of  him  says:  "In  Europe  he  lived  with 
nobles  and  gentlemen;  dined  with  ease  with  kings; 
consorted  with  the  greatest  hi  whatever  land  he 
visited;  entertained  lavishly;  went  everywhere  — 
and  all  by  the  magic  of  his  pen.  One  who  had  met 
so  many  interesting  personages  would  of  necessity 
become  interesting  himself,  by  this  very  fact,  even 
if  he  were  quite  usual,  and  Willis  was  not  usual." 

Mr.  Aldrich  said  that  to  Willis  belonged  the  honor 
of  making  Thackeray  known  in  our  country,  long 
before  "Vanity  Fair"  was  written.  He  knew  Dickens 
when  he  was  looked  upon  as  only  a  smart  young 
writer.  He  had  breakfasted  with  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb;  knew  Landor;  and  to  him  the  Countess 
Guiccioli  imparted  her  memories  of  Byron.  He  was 
also  the  friend  of  Lady  Byron,  and  of  Byron's  sister, 
Augusta  Leigh,  and  of  Joanna  Baillie,  Scott's  friend; 
Disraeli,  Buiwer-Lytton,  Samuel  Rogers,  and  in 
truth  all  of  England's  famous  writers  in  the  early 
Victorian  period.  In  America  he  had  a  friendship 
with  almost  every  man  of  letters.  He  went  to  school 


48  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

with  Emerson;  was  among  the  first  to  give  encour 
agement  to  Lowell ;  was  a  friend  to  Hawthorne ;  and 
kindness  itself  to  Bayard  Taylor  when  he  was  a 
friendless  boy.  Mr.  Aldrich  thought  Willis  very  at 
tractive  and  with  exceedingly  good  manners,  and 
that,  in  spite  of  a  certain  dandyism  and  jauntiness 
that  was  characteristic,  he  had  real  manliness,  and 
always  the  courage  of  his  convictions;  that  he  pos 
sessed  the  rare  gift  of  making  persons  see  what  he 
described.  His  sketches  of  the  literary  society  of 
London  he  thought  would  be  eventually  of  such 
value  that  they  would  take  a  permanent  place 
beside  the  memoirs  of  Horace  Walpole  and  other 
writers  of  the  time. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  evening  came  when  all  the  stories  of  the 
literary  life  of  which  Mr.  Aldrich  had  spoken 
paled  before  the  more  human  interest  of  his  friend 
ship  with  the  adopted  daughter  of  Wendell  Phillips, 
whom  he  had  met  on  one  of  his  pilgrimages  to  the 
"Old  Town  by  the  Sea." 

Insidiously,  and  unsuspectingly  to  each,  friend 
ship  had  changed  and  unacknowledged  love  usurped 
the  place.  Between  them,  however,  always  stood  an 
angel  with  flaming  sword  —  "The  Cause,"  as  it  was 
named  by  those  who,  under  its  banner,  were  willing 
to  lay  down  life  and  march  bravely  to  death,  were 
it  needful.  The  abolition  of  slavery  had  been  for 
years  a  question  of  tremendous  interest  among  the 
relatively  small  group  of  men  and  women  who  held 
it  unrighteous  and  un-Christian  to  hold  in  bondage 
their  fellow  men.  To  this  daughter  of  Wendell  Phil 
lips  "The  Cause"  seemed  the  one  important  mo 
tive  and  purpose  of  life.  All  the  years  she  had  known 
had  been  passed  in  this  atmosphere  of  almost  single 
thought,  giving  to  her  presence  a  kind  of  fire  shin 
ing  through  and  about  her  like  the  lights  in  a 
jewel.  Nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  the 
personality  of  this  girl  as  Mr.  Aldrich  sketched 
her.  Tall  and  slender,  the  black  eyes  full  of  intelli- 


50  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

gence  and  fire;  gay,  quick,  and  always  different 
from  anybody  else  he  had  ever  met;  a  girl  of  uncom 
mon  beauty  of  person  and  character.  Unhappily  for 
both,  Mr.  Aldrich  at  this  time  was  not  in  matters  of 
heart  an  entirely  free  agent.  The  summer  before 
there  had  been  a  moonlight  ride  with  a  young  friend 
of  his  mother's,  "And  on  such  a  night,  on  such  a 
night  as  this,  when  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss 
the  trees,  and  they  did  make  no  noise,"  who  could 
resist  propinquity  and  moonlight  combined?  As 
suredly  not  a  young  poet,  in  love  with  love.  Mr. 
Aldrich  felt  his  engagement  to  be  an  invulnerable 
armor,  through  which  no  arrow  could  pierce.  Loy 
ally  wearing  it,  he  could  enjoy  to  the  fullest  the  in 
timate  companionship  into  which  he  was  thrown 
with  this  girl,  who  was  visiting  his  nearest  friend  in 
the  "Old  Town  by  the  Sea."  It  was  not  until  he  was 
actually  submerged,  wrecked,  without  rudder  or 
compass,  that  he  realized  the  danger,  although  Miss 
Garnault,  dimly  conscious  of  their  mutual  insecu 
rity,  endeavored  to  lead  Mr.  Aldrich  astray  with  the 
thought  that  an  elderly  friend  of  Mr.  Phillips,  who 
frequently  wrote  her  fatherly  and  Platonic  letters, 
full  of  "The  Cause,"  owned  her  allegiance,  and  with 
this  imaginary  wooer,  doubly  safeguarded,  they 
might  breathe  the  magic  air  without  hazard  or  fear. 
With  Mr,  Aldrich's  recognition  of  his  real  feeling 
for  Miss  Garnault  was  deep  contrition  and  sorrow 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  51 

for  his  broken  faith  toward  one,  who  with  most  un 
derstanding  sympathy  forgave.  The  story  was  told, 
and  to  her  the  initiative  left,  with  freedom  to  break 
the  engagement  or  to  let  it  continue  as  it  was  before. 
The  ring  and  his  letters,  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon, 
were  returned,  and  Mr.  Aldrich,  with  very  per 
turbed  and  unhappy  mind,  returned  to  the  dignity 
of  the  editorial  chair,  where  he  and  his  Muse,  in 
closer  companionship,  indited  a  melancholy  "Nest 
of  Sonnets"  in  which  "Wailing  Winds,"  "Dreary 
Waste,"  "Tender  Thought,"  "Speechless  Pain," 
and  kindred  themes  were  much  in  evidence. 

"When  I  was  young  and  light  of  heart, 
I  made  sad  songs  with  easy  art." 

A  few  months  later  Mr.  Aldrich  asked  Mr.  Phil 
lips  for  his  consent  to  try  and  win  the  hand  and 
heart  of  his  adopted  daughter.  It  was  to  Mr.  Phil 
lips  a  most  surprising  and  unwelcome  proposition. 
He  refused  to  believe  his  daughter  had  grown  up. 
"She  was  much  too  young  to  think  of  love,  and 
when  the  real  love  came  into  her  life,  it  should  be 
brought  by  a  man  to  whom  'The  Cause1  was  dear. 
Otherwise  the  union  could  never  be  a  happy  one,  for 
the  flame  of  'The  Cause'  burnt  day  and  night  on  the 
altar  of  the  inner  shrine  —  the  beacon  light  illumi 
nating  the  work  that  was  hers  to  do." 

A  concession  was  finally  made  —  that  there 
should  be  no  engagement,  but  an  understanding,  so- 


52  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

called;  that  if  after  a  year  both  were  of  the  same 
mind,  Mr.  Aldrich  should  come  again,  and  this  time 
the  answer  might  be  yes.  But  until  the  year  was 
over  there  should  be  no  meeting,  although  a  few  let 
ters  might  be  allowed.  Smilingly  they  parted.  Only 
a  year  to  wait,  and  both  so  strong  and  firm  in  their 
belief  in  the  fidelity  and  unchangeableness  of  their 
love.  Although  Mr.  Aldrich  was  nominally  but  an 
assistant  editor,  his  chief  came  less  and  less  to  the 
editorial  sanctum,  so  that  there  was  little  leisure  for 
anything  but  the  routine  work  of  the  newspaper, 
and  when  measures  for  the  abolition  of  slavery  were 
strongly  urged  as  proper  themes  for  the  editorial 
columns,  the  young  assistant,  like  Cassius,  "put  it 
by,"  to  his  possible  undoing  with  the  fair  one  of  his 
choice.  The  limited  correspondence  of  four  letters  a 
month  may  have  seemed  as  if  too  much  coveted 
space  was  given  to  the  mooted  question.  But  with 
this  exception  they  brought  to  the  busy  life  settled 
content  and  happiness.  When  the  year  of  probation 
was  almost  at  its  close,  a  letter  came  asking  Mr. 
Aldrich  to  come  at  once  to  Boston,  and  ending  with 
the  words,  "I  am  wretchedly  unhappy!" 

Mr.  Aldrich  took  the  first  available  train,  and 
with  grim  foreboding  found  himself  at  the  door  of 
Wendell  Phillips's  quaint  old  house  in  Essex  Street. 
A  servant,  evidently  expecting  him,  ushered  him  in. 
In  a  few  moments  she  returned  with  the  request 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  53 

that  Mr.  Aldrich  would  go  to  Miss  Phoebe's  room,  as 
she  was  ill,  confined  to  her  bed.  The  interview  there 
was  dramatic  in  the  extreme.  With  tears  and  fever 
ish  excitement  the  story  was  told.  There  had  been 
threats  against  Mr.  Phillips's  life  —  the  coming  of 
an  apostle  of  "The  Cause,"  George  Smalley,  a  cru 
sader  with  sword  and  pistol  ready  to  redress  the 
wrongs  of  the  world.  The  Essex  Street  house  a  fort, 
which  for  three  days  and  nights  the  white  knight 
guarded;  the  end  of  the  comedy,  or  tragedy,  easily 
foreseen.  The  reward  of  valor  the  fair  lady's  hand. 
For  our  Knight  of  the  Woeful  Countenance  there 
could  be  nothing  but  acquiescence  in  this  decree. 
The  stunning  blow  should  be  met  bravely,  as  befits  a 
man;  but  in  parting  forever  he  wished  the  lady  to 
know  that  in  that  room  lay  buried  all  his  hopes  and 
dreams.  And  should  in  long  distant  years  another 
woman  come  into  his  lonely  life,  she  must  under 
stand  that  he  still  could  give  affection,  but  never 
love  again,  for  that  must  now  be  like  the  ashes  of 
roses,  dead  in  his  heart. 

"They  parted,  with  clasps  of  hand, 

And  kisses,  and  burning  tears, 
They  met  in  a  foreign  land,. 
After  some  twenty  years. 

"  Met  as  acquaintances  meet, 

Smilingly,  tranquil-eyed  — 
Not  even  the  least  little  beat 
Of  the  heart,  upon  either  side!" 


54  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

For  the  next  three  or  four  years  editorial  work 
proved  a  panacea  to  unhappiness.  The  increasing 
responsibility  of  the  paper,  with  the  added  work  of 
reading  manuscripts  for  other  publishing  houses, 
left  no  unoccupied  time,  except  the  hours  stolen 
from  sleep,  for  the  "swallow  flights"  of  song,  and 
until  the  meeting  in  Mr.  Bierstadt's  studio  all 
women  became  somewhat  as  shadows  in  Mr.  Al- 
drich's  busy  life. 

From  the  time  of  Mr.  Aldrich's  engagement,  al 
most  to  his  marriage,  the  dominant  note  underlying 
every  condition  of  life  was  the  Civil  War,  bringing  in 
its  wake  sorrow  and  desolation  all  over  the  country. 
Scarcely  a  life  that  was  not  in  some  way  affected  by 
it.  Mr.  Aldrich  was  then  editing  the  "Illustrated 
News,"  and  one  day  being  in  the  street  with  tablet 
and  pencil  in  hand,  making  a  sketch  of  the  assem 
bling  of  a  mob  to  resist  the  drafting  of  men  for  the 
army,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  riot  noticing  his  occu 
pation  set  up  the  cry,  " Down  with  him!  Down  with 
him!  Kill  him!"  Nothing  but  youthful  agility  and 
fine  running  powers  saved  him  from  serious  injury; 
and  even  then  in  the  foray  his  wrists  were  badly  cut, 
disabling  him  for  some  time  from  using  his  pen,  but 
giving  him  the  opportunity  to  go  often  into  the 
country  for  brief  visits  to  his  fiancee. 

"Ah,  graybeard,  what  a  happy  thing  it  was 
When  love  was  in  its  spring." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  55 

Mr.  Aldrich  had  a  wide  circle  of  friends  in  literary 
and  artistic  life.  Nothing  could  be  more  pleasing 
than  the  kindness  in  which  they  included  the  young 
girl  to  whom  Mr.  Aldrich  had  become  engaged  and 
welcomed  her  to  their  friendship. 

Many  were  the  small  teas  given  in  her  honor  in 
the  Studio  Building  in  Tenth  Street,  where  many 
artists  of  reputation  had  their  studios  and  most  of 
them  their  homes.  Very  delightful  was  this  meeting- 
ground  with  its  strong  feeling  of  good  comradeship 
which  pervaded  the  atmosphere.  When  from  one  of 
the  studios  a  picture  was  sold,  there  seemed  general 
rejoicing,  as  if  they  were  all  members  of  one  family, 
and  each  glad  of  the  good  fortune  of  his  brother. 
Three  or  four  times  during  the  season  all  the  artists 
combined  and  sent  out  cards  to  friends  and  acquaint 
ances  for  an  "At  Home,"  an  "Artist  Reception," 
so-called.  For  that  evening  every  studio  would  be 
brilliantly  lighted,  gay  with  flowers,  small  tea- 
tables  or  punch-tables  set  in  each  one:  the  crowds  of 
visitors  wandering  from  room  to  room,  here  and 
there  as  the  spirit  moved,  through  the  big  building. 
Invitations  to  these  receptions  were  much  prized. 
Not  only  were  the  artists  themselves  to  be  seen  in 
their  varied  and  picturesque  studios,  but  distin 
guished  strangers  and  guests  from  other  cities  were 
also  to  be  met,  and  during  the  war  there  was  certain 
to  be  the  latest  news  from  the  front,  for  everywhere 


56  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

officers  and  soldiers  were  much  in  evidence.  Mr. 
Launt  Thompson's  studio  was  one  of  the  largest, 
and  as  he  was  a  great  favorite,  choice  spirits  were 
always  to  be  met  there  both  night  and  day. 

Memory  recalls  most  pleasantly  an  afternoon, 
soon  after  Mr.  Aldrich's  engagement  was  an 
nounced,  when  a  cast  of  a  hand  was  to  be  made. 
There  seemed  to  be  wireless  communication  through 
the  entire  building,  so  that  if  anything  of  interest 
was  happening  in  any  of  the  rooms  the  whole  com 
munity  knew  of  it.  On  this  afternoon  artist  after 
artist  dropped  in,  until  there  were  no  longer  seats 
left  to  be  given  them.  The  picture  of  that  room  on 
that  day  is  still  very  vivid  in  my  memory.  The 
studio  was  high-studded  and  long.  A  colossal  statue 
(General  Scott,  I  think)  dominated  the  centre  of  the 
room.  It  was  still  in  clay  and  shrouded  in  wet  cloths, 
shaping  the  outlines  of  a  gigantic  figure,  and  giving 
to  it  a  weird  feeling  of  awe  and  mystery.  "The  Trap 
per,"  finished  and  mounted  on  a  pedestal;  the  life- 
size  bust  of  Mr.  Booth  as  Hamlet,  in  process  of  mak 
ing;  a  beautifully  chiselled,  oval  face  of  a  young  girl; 
a  plaster  medallion  of  Mr.  Aldrich,  later  given  to 
him  as  a  wedding  present;  numberless  torsos,  legs 
and  arms,  hands  and  feet,  hung  on  pegs  and  nails  all 
over  the  brown-stained  walls  of  the  room,  with  here 
and  there  a  piece  of  tapestry  or  bright  rugs  to  give 
warmth  and  color,  and  always  in  a  corner  the  alcohol 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  57 

urn  for  the  brewing  of  tea  or  coffee  for  the  unex 
pected  or  expected  guest.  The  coming  of  Mr.  Booth 
(who  had  returned  to  New  York)  with  his  brothers, 
Junius  and  John  Wilkes,  the  picture-making  talk  of 
the  studios,  and  of  Mr.  Booth's  saying  to  Mr.  Bier- 
stadt  and  Mr.  Gifford  "that  they  must  lose  all  sense 
of  being  save  in  the  painted  ripple  of  a  lake,  or  the 
peaks  of  a  snow-capped  mountain." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jervis  McEntee  were  the  only  mar 
ried  members  of  the  fraternity  that  lived  in  the 
Studio  Building.  Mrs.  McEntee,  greatly  beloved, 
and  always  willing  to  act  as  chaperon  for  the  bache 
lor  artists  when  they  held  court.  The  McEntees' 
apartment  was  the  only  one  that  had  the  glorifica 
tion  of  stairs  and  a  kitchenette,  and  many  were  the 
charming  little  dinners  served  there,  with  eligible 
men  always  to  be  had  waiting  the  hoped-for  sum 
mons. 

The  first  opportunity  Mr.  Aldrich  had  to  intro 
duce  his  fiancee  to  his  more  formal  friends  and 
acquaintances  was  at  the  Century  Club.  A  testi 
monial  was  to  be  given  there  to  Mr.  William  Cullen 
Bryant  on  his  seventieth  birthday,  to  which  the 
principal  literary  and  artistic  circles  were  invited.  A 
letter  from  Mr.  Aldrich  that  bears  the  date  of  No 
vember  i,  1864,  expresses  the  excitement  the  invita 
tion  brought.  The  allusion  to  gold  lace  and  brass 
buttons  was  not  without  a  certain  triumph  to  one 


58  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

who  in  the  past  had  feared  their  glitter  might  prove 
more  alluring  than  civilian  tweeds: 

"  I  hunted  up  Thompson  to  find  out  what  persons 
are  expected  to  wear  at  the  Bryant  festival.  He 
knew  as  little  as  I,  but  as  gentlemen  are  requested  to 
wear  black  coats  and  white  chokers,  why,  I  suppose 
the  ladies  will  be  allowed  to  get  their  dear  selves  up 
regardless.  But  don't  you  do  it.  Your  black  and 
green  silk  frock  and  the  lace  shawl,  and  your  hair 
high,  will  make  you  look  as  pretty  as  need  be.  You 
will  probably  never  have  a  chance  to  see  so  many 
poets  and  artists  together  as  will  be  there;  and  I 
shall  be  proud  to  take  you  on  an  invitation  not  sent 
to  me  because  I  am  rich,  or  a  member  of  the  Century 
Club,  but  only  because  I  am  a  literary  man.  A 
Brigadier-General  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  could 
not  get  you  there!  All  of  which  pleases  me." 

It  was  a  brilliant  company  that  gathered  at  the 
Century  Club  on  the  appointed  night.  In  welcoming 
the  guest  of  the  evening,  the  President,  Mr.  George 
Bancroft,  said  that  the  object  of  the  meeting  was 
primarily  to  celebrate  the  career  of  their  guest  as  a 
poet.  "While  the  mountains  and  the  oceanside  ring 
with  the  tramp  of  cavalry,  and  the  din  of  cannon, 
we  take  a  respite  in  the  serene  regions  of  ideal  pur 
suits." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  delivered  an  address,  and 
poems  were  written  (many  of  them  read)  for  the 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  59 

occasion  by  Dr.  Holmes,  James  Russell  Lowell, 
Bayard  Taylor,  George  H.  Boker,  Richard  Henry 
Stoddard,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  Julia  Ward 
Howe,  and  many  other  lesser  lights. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.  BOOTH  had  returned  to  New  York  two 
months  after  his  wife's  death  and  taken  a 
house  in  Seventeenth  Street,  where  he  was  living 
with  his  motherless  baby  and  the  "  impatient  long 
ing  for  his  lost  happiness."  In  a  letter  written  to 
Miss  Gary  in  the  summer  of  that  year,  he  says  of  his 
life  and  his  household:  "  I  have  been  kept  as  busy  as 
though  1  had  been  acting  all  this  while,  for  it  is  my 
wish  to  bring  out  several  of  the  Shakespearean  plays 
in  a  superior  style,  and  the  whole  management  of  the 
affair  is  in  my  hands.  Everything  looks  fairly  pros 
perous  for  the  coming  season  at  the  Winter  Garden 
(1864),  and  when  I  begin,  October  3d,  I  shall  be 
kept  at  it  until  next  April,  when  I  shall  act  in  Bos 
ton.  Dear  Mother  is  happy  with  her  children  about 
her,  thank  God !  but  she  still  has  an  absent  one,  the 
youngest  boy  [John  Wilkes  Booth],  strange,  wild, 
and  ever  moving;  he  causes  us  all  some  degree  of 
anxiety." 

Mr.  Booth  had  become  part  proprietor  of  the 
Winter  Theatre.  In  writing  later  in  the  winter  to  a 
friend  he  said:  "  I  have  scarcely  had  breathing  time. 
The  terrible  success  of  'Hamlet'  seems  to  have 
swallowed  up  everything  else  theatrical ;  and  the  de- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  61 

sire  I  have  to  follow  it  up  with  something  still  better 
done  in  the  way  of  costumes  and  scenery  keeps  me 
far  off  in  fairyland  day  and  night,  in  my  dreams  and 
in  my  days." 

The  profound  sorrow  of  Mrs.  Booth's  death 
had  deepened  the  introspective  expression  of  Mr. 
Booth's  face,  and  made  his  body  seem  still  more 
frail.  In  playing  "Hamlet"  this  year  he  used  no 
make-up  save  his  inky  coat  and  sable  weeds,  nor  did 
he  need  to,  looking  Hamlet's  self.  His  kinship  with 
Shakespeare  revealed  itself  more  and  more  with 
every  utterance  of  Shakespeare's  verse. 

In  writing  to  Miss  Gary  in  the  early  spring 
Mr.  Booth  said:  "Our  war  news  is  indeed  glori 
ous.  I  am  happy  in  it,  and  glory  in  it,  although 
Southern-born.  God  grant  the  end,  or  rather  the 
beginning,  is  near  at  hand,  for  when  the  war 
ceases  we  shall  only  have  begun  to  live  —  a  nation 
never  to  be  shaken  again,  ten  times  more  glorious, 
a  million  times  firmer  than  before.  I  have  but  ten 
more  nights  to  complete  the  one  hundredth  of 
'Hamlet's'  performance  this  season.  Then  I  hope 
to  give  a  benefit  for  the  Shakespearean  Statue  Fund, 
in  which  I  am  deeply  interested,  and  retire  to  pack 
up  my  trunks  for  Boston." 

On  March  20,  1865,  Mr.  Booth  finished  his  hun 
dredth  night  of  "Hamlet"  at  the  Winter  Garden 
Theatre  in  New  York,  and  on  March  24  opened  in 


62  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Boston  with  an  engagement  beginning  with  great 
brilliancy  and  ending  in  such  grim  tragedy.  In  the 
last  week  of  this  engagement  the  news  of  the  sur 
render  of  Lee's  army  was  received.  The  account  of 
what  followed  the  news  of  the  surrender,  Mr.  James 
Ford  Rhodes  has  told  so  graphically  that  I  quote 
from  his  page: 

"The  people  of  the  North  rejoiced  ...  as  they 
had  never  rejoiced  before,  nor  did  they  during  the 
remainder  of  the  century  on  any  occasion  show  such 
an  exuberance  of  gladness.  Business  was  suspended 
and  the  courts  adjourned.  Cannons  fired,  bells  rang, 
flags  floated,  houses  and  shops  were  gay  with  the 
red,  white,  and  blue.  There  were  illuminations  and 
bonfires.  The  streets  of  the  cities  and  towns  were 
filled  with  men,  who  shook  hands  warmly,  embraced 
each  other,  shouted,  laughed  and  cheered,  and  were 
indeed  beside  themselves  in  their  great  joy.  There 
were  pledges  in  generous  wines  and  much  common 
drinking  in  bar-rooms  and  liquor  shops.  There  were 
fantastic  processions,  grotesque  performances,  and 
some  tomfoolery.  Grave  old  gentlemen  forgot  their 
age  and  dignity  and  played  the  pranks  of  school 
boys.  But  always  above  these  foolish  and  bibulous 
excesses  sounded  the  patriotic  and  religious  note  of 
the  jubilee.  *  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings 
flow,'  were  the  words  most  frequently  sung  in  the 
street,  the  Board  of  Trade,  and  on  the  Stock  Ex- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  63 

change.  'Twenty  thousand  men  in  the  busiest 
haunts  of  trade  in  one  of  the  most  thronged  cities  of 
the  world,'  Motley  wrote,  '  uncovered  their  heads 
spontaneously  and  sang  the  psalm  of  thanksgiving, 
"  Praise  God. "  '  Noteworthy  was  the  service  in 
Trinity  Church,  New  York,  one  hour  after  midday 
of  the  Tuesday  following  the  surrender,  when  the 
church  overflowed  with  worshippers,  who  were  in  the 
main  people  of  distinction.  The  choir  chanted  the 
'Te  Deum'  and  at  the  bidding  of  the  clergyman,  the 
congregation  rose,  and,  inspired  by  the  great  organ 
and  guided  by  the  choir,  sang  the  noble  anthem 
'  Gloria  in  Excelsis.'  These  opening  words,  '  Glory  be 
to  God  on  high,  and  on  earth  peace,  good  will  toward 
men,'  had  a  peculiar  significance  to  the  Northern 
people  who  during  these  days  of  rejoicing  were  for 
the  most  part  full  of  generous  feeling  for  the  South. 
Patriotism  expressed  itself  in  the  songs  'John 
Brown's  Body,'  'My  Country,  'tis  of  thee,'  'Rally 
round  the  Flag,'  and  the  'Star-Spangled  Banner/ 
Lowell  instinctively  put  into  words  what  his  coun 
trymen  had  in  their  hearts:  'The  news  is  from 
Heaven.  I  felt  a  strange  and  tender  exaltation.  I 
wanted  to  laugh  and  I  wanted  to  cry,  and  ended  by 
holding  my  peace  and  feeling  devoutly  thankful. 
There  is  something  magnificent  in  having  a  country 
to  love.'" 
On  a  day  forever  memorable,  the  I4th  of  April, 


64  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

in  Charleston  Harbor,  where  four  years  earlier  the 
war  began,  a  national  thanksgiving  was  being  cele 
brated.  Lee's  surrender  and  the  fall  of  Richmond 
were  considered  the  end  of  the  insurrection,  and  the 
Government  had  resolved  that  on  this  anniversary 
the  flag  of  the  Union  should  receive  a  conspicuous 
salute  on  the  spot  where,  ingloriously,  it  had  been 
hauled  down.  Precisely  at  the  hour  of  noon  General 
Robert  Anderson  hoisted  to  its  place  above  Fort 
Sumter's  ruins  the  identical  flag  which  he,  in  bitter 
humiliation,  had  been  forced  to  lower  four  years 
before. 

Sumter  saluted  the  flag  with  one  hundred  guns. 
Every  little  fort  and  battery  which  had  fired  upon 
the  garrison  at  the  commencement  of  the  war,  now 
gave  a  national  salute.  The  people  sang  the  "  Star- 
Spangled  Banner,"  Henry  Ward  Beecher  delivered 
an  impressive  oration,  "and  while  the  rejoicing 
went  on  echoes  of  a  jubilation  resounded  through 
out  the  North." 

At  Washington  this  1 4th  day  of  April  (ever  to  be 
remembered  in  the  annals  of  history)  was  one  of 
peace  and  thanksgiving.  The  President,  who  had 
intently  watched  the  campaigns  and  studied  the 
battles,  was  now  somewhat  relieved  from  the  re 
sponsibility  and  hourly  anxiety  which  insistently 
had  filled  his  days  and  nights.  The  inexpressible  sad 
ness  that  had  become  almost  a  permanent  expres- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  65 

sion  of  his  eyes  was  less  noticeable;  the  furrows 
which  sleepless  nights  had  imprinted  on  the  kindly 
face  seemed  less  marked  on  this  Good  Friday,  the 
day  ordained  to  be  his  last  on  earth.  General  Grant 
had  arrived  in  Washington  that  morning  and  had 
gone  to  the  White  House.  The  President  related  to 
him  an  ominous  dream  he  had  the  night  before  of 
a  strange  and  indescribable  vessel,  moving  swiftly 
toward  a  dark  and  boundless  shore.  "  It  is  my  usual 
dream,"  he  said  in  describing  it,  "and  has  preceded 
every  important  event  of  the  war." 

Later  in  the  day  there  had  been  a  cabinet  meet 
ing,  and  the  subject  of  reconstruction  was  taken 
up.  At  the  close  of  the  meeting,  the  President  im 
pressively  said,  "Reconstruction  is  the  great  ques 
tion  pending,  and  we  now  must  begin  to  act  in  the 
interest  of  peace."  The  rest  of  the  day  was  one  of 
unusual  enjoyment,  passed  with  his  family  and  in 
timate  friends. 

In  Boston,  on  the  memorable  evening,  an  enthusi 
astic  audience  had  filled  every  available  seat  in  the 
large  Boston  Theatre,  listening  with  ardent  interest 
and  applause  to  Mr.  Booth's  portrayal  of  Sir  Edward 
Mortimer  in  "The  Iron  Chest,"  a  play  written  by 
George  Colman,  the  younger,  in  which  Edmund 
Kean  achieved  a  great  triumph.  The  notice  of  the 
play  for  that  evening,  copied  from  the  "Boston 
Herald"  of  that  date,  follows: 


66  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

BOSTON  THEATRE 

Henry  C.  Jarrett Lessee  and  Manager 

Tonight  [April  14] 

FAREWELL  BENEFIT  OF 
EDWIN  BOOTH 

Who  will  appear  as  Sir  Edward  Mortimer  in 
THE  IRON  CHEST 

and  as 
DON  CESAR  DE  BAZAN 

Doors  open  at  7 \ ;  to  commence  at  7  J. 

Tomorrow  Afternoon,  Mr.  Booth  as  Hamlet,  and  his  last 

appearance. 

At  the  same  hour,  at  Ford's  Theatre  in  Washing 
ton,  the  following  bill  was  being  presented: 

FORD'S  THEATRE 
TENTH  STREET,  ABOVE  E 

Season  II Week  XXXI Night  19 

Whole  Number  of  Nights,  495 

JOHN  T.  FORD Proprietor  and  Ma'.iager 

(Also  of  Holliday  St.  Theatre,  Baltimore 
and  Academy  of  Music,  Phil'a) 

Stage  Manager J.  B.  WRIGHT 

Treasurer H.  CLAY  FORD 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  67 

FRIDAY  EVENING,  APRIL  HTH,  1865 

BENEFIT! 

AND 
LAST  NIGHT 

OF  MISS 
LAURA  KEENE 

The  Distinguished  Manageress,  Authoress  and  Actress 
supported  by 

MR.  JOHN  DYOTT 

and 
MR.  HARRY  HAWK 

TOM  TAYLOR'S  Celebrated  Eccentric  Comedy 

As  originally  produced  in  America  by  Miss  Keene 

and  performed  by  her  upwards  of 

One  Thousand  Nights 

ENTITLED 

OUR  AMERICAN  COUSIN 

FLORENCE  TRENCHARD  Miss  Laura  Keene 

(Her  Original  Character) 

ABEL  MURCOTT,  Clerk  to  Attorney  John  Dyott 

ASA  TRENCHARD  Harry  Hawk 

SIR  EDWARD  TRENCHARD  T.  C.  Gourlay 

LORD  DUNDREARY  E.  A.  Emerson 

MR.  COYLE,  Attorney  J.  Matthews 

LIEUTENANT  VERNON,  R.  N.  W.  J.  Ferguson 

CAPTAIN  DE  BOOTS  C.  Byrnes 

BINNEY  G.  G.  Spear 

BUDDICOMB,  a  valet  J.  H.  Evans 

JOHN  WHICKER,  a  gardener  J.  L.  De  Bonay 
RASPER,  a  groom 

BAILIFFS  G.  A.  Parkhurst  and  L.  Johnson 

MARY  TRENCHARD  Miss  J.  Gourlay 

MRS.  MONTCHESSINGTON  Mrs.  H.  Muzzy 

AUGUSTA  Mrs.  H.  Trueman 

GEORGIANA  Miss  M.  Hart 

SHARPE  Mrs.  J.  H.  Evans 

SKILLET  Miss  M.  Gourlay 


68  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

SATURDAY  EVENING,  APRIL  15 

Benefit  of  Miss  JENNIE  GOURLAY  when  will  be  presented 

BOUCICAULT'S  Great  Sensational  Drama 

THE  OCTOROON 

EASTER  MONDAY,  APRIL  17 
Engagement  of  the  YOUNG  AMERICAN  TRAGEDIAN 

EDWIN  ADAMS 
For  Twelve  Nights  Only 

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Orchestra  $i  .00 

Dress  Circle  and  Parquette  .  75 

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Private  Boxes  $6  and  $10 

J.  R.  FORD,  Business  Manager 

At  the  theatre  in  Washington,  on  the  memorable 
evening  of  April  14,  every  place  was  taken,  until 
there  was  no  longer  standing-room.  The  audience 
was  electrical  with  excitement  and  nervous  tension 
—  at  last  the  rebellion  had  collapsed,  the  war  was 
over.  The  great  Captain,  whose  firm  and  steady  guid 
ance  had  piloted  the  country  through  its  grim  peril, 
had  selected  this  evening  for  the  enjoyment  of  a 
play,  and  had  asked  his  victorious  general,  Grant, 
and  his  wife,  to  share  the  pleasure.  But  fortunately 
the  desire  to  see  their  boys  a  few  hours  earlier  had 
made  them  cancel  the  engagement,  and  their  places 
were  taken  by  Major  Henry  Reed  Rathbone  and  his 
fiancee,  Miss  Harris. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  69 

The  President,  enclosed  in  the  seclusion  of  a  small 
stage  box  on  the  second  tier,  half  hidden  from  the 
gaze  and  adulation  of  the  crowded  auditorium,  but 
fully  conscious  of  the  deep  feeling  of  affection  and 
confidence  with  which  he  was  regarded,  the  happy 
evening  passed  until  ten  o'clock,  when  the  door 
behind  his  chair  opened  noiselessly,  and  John  Wilkes 
Booth  entered,  holding  a  pistol  in  one  hand,  a  knife 
in  the  other  —  seeming  as  if  he  were  taking  a  part 
in  a  play.  Almost  instantly  upon  his  entrance  he  put 
the  pistol  to  the  President's  head  and  fired.  Drop 
ping  the  weapon,  he  took  the  knife  in  his  right  hand, 
and  when  Major  Rathbone  sprang  toward  him  he 
savagely  struck  at  him  and  severely  wounded  his 
arm.  Booth  then  rushed  forward  to  the  rail  of  the 
box,  and  vaulted  lightly  onto  the  stage,  where  a  foe 
he  had  not  counted  on  in  his  conspiracy  tripped  and 
held  him  —  a  flag,  the  flag  of  the  Union  which 
he  hoped  to  dismember.  With  the  million  men  then 
under  arms,  any  one  of  whom  would  gladly  have 
given  life  to  save  this  priceless  life,  how  strange  and 
subtle  the  fate  that  left  the  flag  to  be  the  only  senti 
nel  on  duty,  but  how  well  it  fitted  with  Lincoln's 
vein  of  prophetic  mysticism  which  was  so  strong  an 
element  of  his  character! 

Booth  would  have  got  safely  away  but  for  the 
flag  which  draped  the  box,  catching  his  spur,  and  in 
falling  he  broke  his  leg,  but  instantly  rose  as  if  he  had 


70  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

received  no  hurt,  turned  to  the  audience  and  shouted 
the  State  motto  of  Virginia,  "Sic  semper  tyrannis," 
and  fled  out  of  sight;  leaped  upon  his  horse  which 
was  waiting  in  the  alley  and  rode  rapidly  away  in 
the  light  of  the  just-risen  moon. 

The  President  was  carried  to  a  small  brick  house 
across  the  street,  where  for  nine  hours  he  lingered  in 
unconscious  existence.  Then  a  look  of  beautiful  peace 
came  to  the  wan  face,  and  the  great  heart  was  at  rest. 
"Nothing  can  touch  him  further." 

At  the  same  hour  that  John  Wilkes  Booth  in  Wash 
ington  had  played  his  part  in  the  greatest  tragedy 
ever  enacted  on  any  stage,  Edwin  Booth  at  the 
Boston  Theatre  was  being  called  out  again  and 
again,  to  receive  the  tremendous  applause  he  had 
aroused.  After  repeated  calls  the  green  baize  cur 
tain  was  rung  down,  and  Mr.  Booth  went  slowly 
homeward,  the  verses  with  which  the  comedy  of 
"Don  Caesar  de  Bazan"  ends  still  echoing  in  his 
ears: 

"Long  live  the  King!  Long  live  the  King!  Long  live  the  King! 
Who  e'er  repays  our  love  with  love  again, 
Let  peace  be  joined  to  length  of  days, 
Let  peace  be  joined  to  bless  his  happy  reign." 

As  the  verse  repeated  itself  over  and  over  in  Mr. 
Booth's  memory  on  account  of  the  victorious  re 
joicing  over  Lee's  surrender,  the  lines  took  a  deeper 
meaning  and  gave  a  stir  of  pleasure  in  the  knowl- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  71 

edge  that  the  only  vote  he  had  ever  cast  was  for 
Lincoln  who  had  brought  peace  to  his  country. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  next  morning  Mr.  Booth 
was  suddenly  awakened  by  his  black  servant  coming 
into  his  room,  and  as  his  order  had  always  been  im 
perative  that  he  was  never  to  be  disturbed  until  he 
rang,  Mr.  Booth  angrily  demanded  what  the  intru 
sion  meant.  —  "Oh,  Massa  Edwin,"  came  the  an 
swer,  "you  never  could  guess  what  has  happened! 
Somethin'  dreadful!  The  President  has  been  shot. 
And,  oh,  Massa  Edwin,  I  am  afraid  Massa  John  has 
done  it!"  And  then  bringing  his  hand  forward  gave 
to  his  master  the  paper  containing  the  appalling  news. 

Incredulously  Mr.  Booth  read,  until  he  came  to  the 
flourish  of  the  dagger,  and  the  shout  of  "Sic  semper 
tyrannis";  in  that  he  recognized  the  fanatical  and 
misguided  spirit,  the  self-appointed  avenger  of  a 
South,  whose  Brutus  he  theatrically  thought  himself. 

The  impression  of  that  day  —  the  I5th  of  April 
—  in  New  York  is  ineffaceable,  and  even  now,  after 
all  the  years  that  have  passed,  in  writing  of  it  I  again 
feel  the  thrill  and  throb  of  emotion  as  in  that  early 
morning  when  Mr.  Aldrich,  pale  and  breathless, 
brought  the  terrible  news  which  a  journalistic  friend 
had  written  and  slipped  under  his  door.  "The  Presi 
dent  is  shot,  and  it  is  supposed  that  John  Wilkes 
Booth  is  the  assassin."  This  ghastly  intelligence  held 
for  us  a  twofold  horror  —  crushing  sorrow  for  the 


72  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

President,  so  cruelly  taken  in  the  hour  of  his  triumph, 
and  a  weight  of  sympathy  for  the  poor  mother  who 
idolized  her  wayward  and  misguided  boy,  who, 
fanatical  for  secession,  had  only  been  held  from 
joining  Lee's  army  and  fighting  against  his  country 
by  his  promise  given  in  answer  to  his  mother's 
prayer. 

Breakfast  was  hurriedly  served,  and  then  through 
the  crowded  streets,  where  already  over  the  gay 
decorations  of  victory  black  trappings  of  woe  were 
being  hung,  we  came  to  the  sombre  household  within 
whose  walls  a  mother  and  sister  sat  stricken  and 
stunned  with  grief,  like  Rachel  of  old  refusing  to 
be  comforted.  Outside  the  newsboys,  with  strident 
voice,  were  calling,  "The  President's  death,  and  the 
arrest  of  John  Wilkes  Booth."  While  in  answer  to 
these  words  the  mother  moaned:  "O  God,  if  this 
be  true,  let  him  shoot  himself,  let  him  not  live  to  be 
hung!  Spare  him,  spare  us,  spare  the  name  that 
dreadful  disgrace!"  Then  came  the  sound  of  the 
postman's  whistle,  and  with  the  ring  of  the  doorbell 
a  letter  was  handed  to  Mrs.  Booth.  It  was  from  John 
Wilkes  Booth,  written  in  the  afternoon  before  the 
tragedy.  A  half-sheet  of  a  fairly  good-sized  letter 
paper.  It  was  an  affectionate  letter,  such  as  any 
mother  would  like  to  receive  from  her  son,  contain 
ing  nothing  of  any  particular  moment,  but  ghastly 
to  read  now,  with  the  thought  of  what  the  feelings 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  73 

of  the  man  must  have  been  who  held  the  pen  in  writ 
ing  it,  knowing  what  overwhelming  sorrow  the  next 
hours  would  bring,  and  vaguely  groping  by  affection 
ate  words  to  bring  to  her  whom  he  loved  most  some 
alleviation,  some  ray  of  light  in  the  darkness  in  which 
he  was  to  envelop  her. 

There  had  been  a  telegram  received  from  Boston 
which  said  Mr.  Booth  would  take  the  midnight  train 
and  be  with  his  mother  early  in  the  morning.  It  bade 
her  hope.  Through  the  unending  hours  of  that  awful 
day  Mr.  Booth  shut  himself  within  his  room,  his 
prayerful  wish  that  the  frenzied  mob  might  seek  and 
find  him  and  end  his  misery.  And  ever  present  in  his 
memory  was  the  agonizing  thought  of  his  mother 
in  her  wretchedness  and  grief,  for  John  Wilkes  was 
her  idol,  her  youngest  born,  and  whatever  the 
world  might  find  of  him  unlovely  he  was  to  her  a 
most  devoted  son. 

The  next  morning  at  Mr.  Booth's  house  in  New 
York  a  small  group  of  friends  awaited  his  coming. 
The  figure  that  stepped  from  the  carriage,  wrapped 
in  a  long  cloak,  with  a  soft  hat  drawn  close  over  his 
face,  was  as  spectral  as  if  the  grave  had  given  up  its 
dead.  It  seemed  the  visible  incarnation  of  grief  of 
such  depth  that  face  and  figure  seemed  turned  to 
stone.  As  the  little  group  of  friends  came  forward 
with  silent  greeting  his  were  the  only  eyes  without 
tears. 


74  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

In  the  sad  days  following  this  home-coming,  Mr. 
Aldrich  was  Mr.  Booth's  constant  companion,  a  vigil 
that  was  not  without  threatening  danger,  as  daily 
letters,  notes,  and  messages  came  to  the  house  ad 
dressed  to  Mr.  Booth  warning  him  that  the  name  of 
Booth  should  be  exterminated.  None  should  bear  it 
and  live.  "Bullets  were  marked  for  him  and  his 
household."  "His  house  would  be  burnt."  Cries  for 
justice  and  vengeance,  and  every  other  indignity  that 
hot  indignation  and  wrathful  words  could  indite. 

Through  the  long  hours  of  those  days  and  nights 
Mr.  Booth  sat  in  almost  frozen  silence.  There  was 
but  one  ray  of  hope  in  that  desolate  household  — 
the  hope  that  John  Wilkes  might  not  live  to  be  hung, 
that  they  might  be  spared  that  last  disgrace.  Through 
the  sad  waiting  no  unkind  word  was  spoken  of  the 
son  and  brother  whose  misconception  and  unbal 
anced  brain  had  brought  the  great  calamity  and  sor 
row  to  the  Nation  and  to  them.  His  biased  thought 
was  as  plainly  interpreted  in  those  piteous  days  as 
when  later  they  read  in  his  diary,  a  week  after  he 
had  killed  the  President,  "I  am  hunted  like  a  dog 
through  swamps  and  woods  .  .  .  with  every  man's 
hand  against  me  ...  for  doing  what  Brutus  was 
honored  for." 

Until  after  the  capture  and  death  of  John  Wilkes, 
Mr.  Aldrich  was  constantly  with  Mr.  Booth  —  sat 
with  him  through  the  mournful  days,  and  waked 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  75 

with  him  through  the  interminable  nights.  Over 
their  bed  hung  a  life-sized  portrait  of  John  Wilkes. 
When  the  bedroom  lights  were  put  out  and  the  glim 
mer  of  the  street  lights  nickered  faintly  in  through 
the  closed  shutters,  the  portrait  to  their  excited 
imaginations  seemed  to  become  animate  —  a  living 
presence,  and  watched  with  them  through  the  night, 
holding  sleep  from  their  eyelids.  An  unexplainable 
feeling  of  infinite  pity  for  the  poor  misguided  ghost, 
a  fugitive  and  wanderer,  fleeing  from  pursuit,  with 
out  place  to  lay  his  head,  and  asking  shelter.  Neither 
had  the  heart  or  the  courage  to  order  its  removal. 

On  the  tenth  day  of  waiting  in  this  bereaved  and 
unhappy  household  a  telegram  came  from  Philadel 
phia  to  Mrs.  Booth  asking  that  she  would  come 
there  at  once,  as  Mrs.  Clarke,  her  daughter,  was 
seriously  ill. 

Mr.  Aldrich  and  Mr.  Thompson  were  with  Mr. 
Booth  when  the  telegram  came.  Mr.  Thompson  of 
fered  to  take  Mrs.  Booth  to  the  train  for  Philadel 
phia,  which  unfortunately  started  from  Jersey  City, 
and  entailed  the  long  drive  through  the  crowded 
streets.  When  Mr.  Thompson  had  his  charge  in  the 
carriage  he  was  startled  by  the  loud  call  of  a  news 
boy  crying,  "  Death  of  John  Wilkes  Booth.  Capture 
of  his  companion."  Mr.  Thompson  made  some 
trivial  excuse  which  enabled  him  to  close  the  win 
dows  and  draw  down  the  curtains,  and  all  through 


76  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

the  endless  way  to  the  ferry  was  the  accompaniment 
of  this  shrill  and  tragic  cry,  which  Mr.  Thompson 
struggled  by  loud  and  incessant  talk  to  smother, 
that  it  might  not  reach  the  ears  of  the  broken-hearted 
mother  until  he  had  an  opportunity  to  buy  a  paper 
and  know  if  the  news  was  true.  On  the  arrival  at  the 
boat  he  hurried  the  shrouded  figure  in  his  charge  to 
a  secluded  corner  of  the  deck,  where  he  hoped  she 
might  escape,  both  in  sight  and  hearing,  the  excite 
ment  that  was  seething  about  her. 

When  he  had  found  a  seat  in  the  crowded  train  for 
Mrs.  Booth,  he  left  her  for  a  moment  and  bought  a 
newspaper,  and  had  time  only  to  put  it  in  her  hand, 
and  to  say : ' '  You  will  need  now  all  your  courage.  The 
paper  in  your  hand  will  tell  you  what,  unhappily,  we 
must  all  wish  to  hear.  John  Wilkes  is  dead" ;  and  as 
he  spoke  the  car  slowly  started,  leaving  Mr.  Thomp 
son  only  time  to  spring  to  the  platform.  On  the  mov 
ing  train,  surrounded  by  strangers,  the  poor  mother 
sat  alone  in  her  misery,  while  every  one  about  her, 
unconscious  of  her  presence,  was  reading  and  talking, 
with  burning  indignation,  of  her  son,  the  assassin 
of  the  President.  Before  the  train  had  reached  its. 
journey's  end,  Mrs.  Booth,  with  wonderful  forti 
tude  and  self-restraint,  had  read  the  pitiful  story 
of  her  misguided  boy's  wanderings,  capture,  and 
death.  And  alone  in  her  wall  of  silence  read  —  "Tell 
my  mother  that  I  died  for  my  country." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  Government  had  issued  a  proclamation 
that  at  Washington,  on  May  22  and  23,  there 
would  be  a  grand  review  of  the  army.  This  announce 
ment  was  accepted  by  the  country  that  the  war  was 
at  an  end;  by  the  soldiers  that  their  services  were 
no  longer  needed  in  the  field ;  by  the  officers  and  civil 
rulers  that  the  armed  resistance  to  the  sundering  of 
the  United  States  had  ceased,  and  that  to  the  un 
happy  struggle  of  the  preceding  years  "  finis"  would 
now  be  written. 

Mr.  Aldrich  and  his  young  fiancee  were  invited 
to  come  to  Washington  for  this  inspiring  pageant, 
their  host  a  colonel  in  the  regular  army,  who  had 
learned  the  business  of  war  at  West  Point,  and  who 
was  for  the  moment  living  outside  the  city  in  one 
of  the  fine  old  Southern  mansions,  whose  owners, 
father  and  son,  had  joined  the  Confederates  and  died 
on  the  field,  leaving  in  the  old  home  a  heart-broken 
wife  and  mother,  and  the  two  or  three  loyal  slaves 
who  still  remained,  protecting  and  shielding  as  much 
as  possible  the  pale  mourners  whom  they  felt  to  be 
their  charge. 

Very  impressive  to  the  young  girl  was  the  arrival 
at  the  crowded  station  at  Washington  in  the  early 


78  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

evening  —  the  throngs  of  people,  soldiers,  civilians, 
women  and  children  in  the  indescribable  tumult  and 
confusion  of  arriving  and  departing  trains,  the  pan 
demonium;  the  coming  of  a  handsome  young  aide- 
de-camp,  with  his  tarnished  shoulder-straps,  de 
tailed  for  escort  duty;  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
the  four  orderlies  who  accompanied  him ;  the  rapid 
drive  over  the  long  bridge ;  the  rhythmical  clatter  of 
the  orderlies'  horses  as  they  followed  the  carriage. 

The  last  traces  of  color  were  fading  from  the  sky  as 
the  handsome  young  officer  led  the  way  up  the  steps 
of  a  white  porch,  which  the  heavy  bloom  of  a  trum 
pet  vine  shaded.  Inside  the  open  door  two  sentries 
stood,  resting  on  their  rifles,  and  outside,  away  some 
where  in  the  distance,  a  band  was  playing,  "The 
Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me." 

There  is  still  a  very  vivid  memory  of  a  dining-room 
in  that  old-time  Southern  mansion,  and  the  dinner 
the  first  night  of  our  arrival.  The  table  set  with  a 
service  of  antique  English  glass ;  the  china  bearing  the 
Spode  mark ;  and  over  the  mantel  an  oil  painting  of 
the  grim  face  of  Andrew  Jackson,  dressed  in  the  re 
galia  of  a  general,  and  looking  down  on  us  from  his 
carved  and  gilt  frame.  The  dinner  was  served  by  a 
gray-haired  black  servitor,  whose  careworn  face  was 
wrinkled  and  seared.  And  although  the  law  declared 
he  was  no  longer  a  slave,  but  a  free  man,  the  owner 
of  himself,  he  wore  still  his  visible  chains  —  chains 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  79 

stronger  than  iron  or  steel  could  forge  —  Love  and 
Devotion  to  the  two  women  left  in  his  care,  and  who, 
were  he  slave  or  free,  would  still  own  him  until  Death 
severed  the  tie. 

From  the  time  of  President  Lincoln's  death  all  in 
signia  of  rejoicing  had  been  over  at  the  Capital  until 
the  day  of  the  grand  review  of  the  victorious  army. 
But  on  that  day  the  city  was  gaily  festooned  and 
garlanded  with  the  National  colors,  floating  flags, 
and  martial  music.  All  day  long  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac  marched  down  Pennsylvania  Avenue  pass 
ing  the  grandstand  occupied  by  the  President  and 
his  Cabinet  and  the  commanding  generals  of  the 
war.  On  the  next  day  came  the  armies  of  the  West 
—  the  men  who  had  marched  with  Sherman  to  the 
sea  —  tramping  they  came,  Custis,  Sherman,  and 
other  heroes  garlanded  with  flowers,  cheers  from  the 
vast  multitude  of  men  and  women  ringing  in  their 
ears  every  step  of  the  way  —  a  splendid  spectacle, 
the  greatest  military  pageant  in  the  history  of  Amer 
ica  and  one  of  the  greatest  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  But  despite  the  brilliant  sunshine,  the  gay 
mass  of  colors,  the  excited  crowds  that  everywhere 
blocked  the  streets,  the  rushing  to  and  fro  of  officers 
and  soldiers,  the  beating  of  drums,  the  resounding 
echo  of  the  cavalry  hurrying  from  post  to  post,  there 
was  the  sadness  that  dominated  every  heart,  and 
made  of  it  a  silent  mourner  for  the  Chief  taken  so 


80  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

cruelly  from  his  day  of  triumph.  For  our  host's 
party  there  were  seats  reserved  on  the  grandstand, 
very  near  the  new  President ;  and  as  general  after 
general,  troops  after  troops,  passed  and  saluted, 
the  wild  enthusiasm  and  thunder  of  applause  smoth 
ered  and  almost  deadened  the  music  of  the  bands, 
which  with  the  torn  and  frayed  battle-flags  became 
to  the  mind  as  a  set  of  bells  tuned  to  each  other  — 
a  paean  and  a  dirge. 

The  assassination  of  Lincoln  was  but  a  part  of  a 
treasonable  conspiracy  entered  into  by  the  instiga 
tors  of  that  crime.  The  evil  purpose  had  been  to 
murder  simultaneously  the  President,  his  Secretary 
of  State,  the  Vice- President,  and  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  of  the  armies.  The  scheme  was  frustrated, 
although  the  attempt  was  made  to  keep  the  unholy 
covenant,  and  at  the  time  of  the  grand  review  a  mili 
tary  court  was  in  session  for  the  trial  of  the  eight 
conspirators  arrested. 

The  Secretary  of  War,  Mr.  Stan  ton,  had  kindly 
given  us  a  pass  to  this  military  tribunal  and  to  Ford's 
Theatre,  and  had  also  detailed  for  our  escort  a  young 
officer  at  whose  magic  touch  all  doors  opened.  Our 
first  visit  was  to  the  theatre,  which  was  strongly 
guarded  by  soldiers,  both  outside  and  inside.  The 
stage  was  still  set  with  all  the  mise  en  seine,  as  on  that 
eventful  evening  of  the  President's  death.  In  the  box 
from  behind  the  curtain  that  had  shaded  his  chair  I 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  81 

picked  up  a  play-bill  that  might  have  fallen  from  his 
hand.  From  the  theatre  we  went  to  the  small  brick 
house  across  the  street  where  the  President  was 
carried  unconscious,  and  where  he  died.  Lincoln's 
strong  personality  still  left  in  that  humble  room  the 
vague  feeling  of 

"A  presence  that  eludes  the  eye, 
Some  subtlety  that  seems  to  stay." 

The  military  court  was  held  in  a  small  room  in  the 
old  arsenal.  The  surroundings  were  in  their  gloomy 
and  sombre  shade  well  fitted  for  the  recital  of  the 
grim  tragedy.  The  glittering  of  the  uniforms  of  the 
officers  who  composed  the  court  made  a  sharp  con 
trast  with  the  wretched  prisoners,  who  were  lined 
up  against  the  walls  of  the  room  with  a  guard  upon 
each  side  of  them. 

Young  Herold,  a  druggist's  clerk  who  had  joined 
John  Wilkes  Booth  immediately  after  the  assassi 
nation,  and  had  been  with  him  during  the  ten  days 
that  preceded  their  capture,  was  under  the  fire  of 
cross-questionings  as  we  entered  the  court-room.  It 
was  a  very  slight  and  boyish  figure  that  fronted  hic 
stern  judges,  the  face  set  and  colorless  like  yellov* 
wax,  with  freckles  that  seemed  almost  to  illuminate 
the  waxen  surface.  The  brown  eyes  were  in  expres 
sion  as  a  deer  that  had  been  wounded;  the  whole 
body  and  face  vibrant  with  anxious  fear,  like  an  an 
imal  that  has  been  trapped  and  sees  no  escape.  One 


82  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

turned  away  from  it  with  a  feeling  that  no  mortal 
had  the  right  to  look  at  a  soul  so  naked  and  unveiled. 

At  the  end  of  the  line  sat  Lewis  Payne,  whose 
attempt  had  been  to  murder  William  H.  Seward, 
Secretary  of  State.  In  his  face  there  was  depicted 
neither  anxiety  nor  interest.  During  the  time  we  were 
in  the  court-room,  Payne,  who  was  sitting  near  the 
open  window,  watched  the  swaying  of  a  tree,  face 
and  figure  expressing  indifference  to  all  the  transitory 
things  of  life  —  life  which  he  seemed  to  have  no 
further  interest  in.  One  could  not  but  wonder,  look 
ing  at  him  as  he  sat  so  undisturbed  and  motionless, 
what  was  the  composition  of  his  thought. 

Mrs.  Surratt  sat  more  toward  the  centre  of  the 
group.  She  was  rather  a  large  woman,  wearing  a 
rusty  black  woollen  dress,  and  most  of  the  time  held 
before  her  face  a  large  palm-leaf  fan.  Of  the  other 
five  prisoners  who  were  charged  with  conspiracy  and 
the  murder  of  Lincoln,  I  have  no  very  distinct  re 
membrance,  beyond  the  tragic  vision  of  seeing  them 
hand-cuffed  and  an  officer  standing  on  each  side  of  a 
sitting  figure. 

We  came  out  through  a  private  door  of  the  court 
room  which  was  in  the  second  story  of  the  building, 
and  as  we  descended  a  spiral  staircase  set  in  grim 
gray  stone  a  figure  coming  up  the  stairs  for  the 
moment  blocked  the  way.  It  was  Mr.  Edwin  Booth 
Whom  the  Government  had  sent  for;  but  happily 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  83 

for  him,  he  was  not  called  upon  to  testify.  Years 
later,  when  the  excitement  of  war  was  over,  the 
Government  sent  word  to  Mr.  Booth  of  the  place 
of  burial  of  John  Wilkes  and  gave  the  right  of  re 
interment. 

At  the  end  of  the  trial  of  the  conspirators,  the 
judge-advocate,  John  A.  Bingham,  said: 

"Whatever  else  may  befall,  I  trust  in  God  that  in 
this,  as  in  every  other  American  Court,  the  rights  of 
the  whole  people  shall  be  respected,  and  that  the  Re 
public  in  this,  its  supreme  hour  of  trial,  will  be  true 
to  itself  and  just  to  all,  ready  to  protect  the  rights 
of  the  humblest,  to  redress  every  wrong,  to  avenge 
every  crime,  to  vindicate  the  majesty  of  law,  and 
to  maintain  inviolate  the  Constitution,  whether  as 
sailed  secretly  or  openly,  or  by  hosts  armed  with 
gold,  or  armed  with  steel." 


CHAPTER  IX 

AFTER  the  mustering-out  of  the  million  of  sol 
diers  who  had  bravely  risked  life  and  fortune 
to  preserve  the  Union,  and  give  freedom  to  the  slave, 
slowly  men  returned  again  to  the  duties  and  inter 
ests  that  had  preceded  the  Civil  War.  Wounds  of 
body  and  spirit  healed,  and  even  summer  itself  be 
came  an  accomplice. 

"Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 
With  what  sweet  voice  of  bird  and  rivulet, 
And  drowsy  murmur  of  the  rustling  leaf, 
Would  Nature  soothe  us,  bidding  us  forget 
The  awful  crime  of  this  distracted  land, 
And  all  our  heavy  heritage  of  grief." 

Of  this  year,  Mr.  Greenslet  in  his  biography  of 
Mr.  Aldrich  says: 

"In  the  autumn  of  1865  three  events  occurred 
which  definitely  marked  that  year  as  the  true  an- 
nus  mirabilis  of  our  poet's  life:  his  collected  poems 
were  published  in  the  authentic  Ticknor  &  Fields 
Blue  and  Gold  Series;  he  was  established  in  a  singu 
larly  pleasant  editorial  chair;  and  he  was  married. 

"The  summer  had  passed  pleasantly  for  Aldrich, 
happy  in  his  love  and  poetic  labor.  Part  of  the  sum 
mer  was  spent  in  Portsmouth,  and  there  Miss  Wood 
man  likewise  came  on  a  visit.  How  pleasant  that  was 


\ 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  85 

no  one  can  realize  who  has  not  guided  a  sympathetic 
sweetheart  through  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds  of 
his  boyhood." 

It  was  during  this  visit  to  the  old  "Nutter  House " 
that  a  letter  came  which  was  to  prove  so  momentous 
in  the  lives  of  both.  Of  this  letter  Mr.  Greenslet 
writes: 

"  It  lies  before  me  now  as  I  write,  a  yellowing  bit 
of  paper  with  some  black  marks  on  it,  a  queer  faded 
thing  to  have  caused  so  much  joyful  excitement 
forty  years  ago: 

' '  DEAR  ALDRICH,  —  We  have  decided  to  do 
"  Every  Saturday,"  and  that  T.  B.  A.  is  the  man  to 
edit  it.  Please  meet  me  on  Sunday  at  the  St.  Denis 
at  as  early  an  hour  as  convenient,  —  say  nine  o'clock, 
—  and  we  will  decide  upon  the  details. 
'  Yours  truly, 

"'J.  R.  OSGOOD.' 

"The  'details'  were  arranged  to  the  entire  satis 
faction  of  both  parties,  and  it  was  decided  that  the 
paper  should  make  its  bow  in  Boston  on  the  first  of 
January,  1866.  At  the  time,  however,  it  was  not 
precisely  the  conduct  of  the  paper  that  was  first  in 
Aldrich's  thoughts. . . .  There  was  no  delay,  or  elab 
orate  preparation.  He  was  married  to  Miss  Wood 
man  in  New  York  on  November  28,  1865.  Bayard 
Taylor  wrote  a  sonnet  for  the  occasion  —  one  of  his 
best. 


86  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

"TO  T.  B.  A.  AND  L.  W. 

"Sad  Autumn,  drop  thy  weedy  crown  forlorn, 
Put  off  thy  cloak  of  cloud,  thy  scarf  of  mist, 
And  dress  in  gauzy  gold  and  amethyst 

A  day  benign,  of  sunniest  influence  born, 

As  may  befit  a  Poet's  marriage-morn ! 
Give  buds  another  dream,  another  tryst 
To  loving  hearts,  and  on  lips  unkissed 

Betrothal-kisses,  laughing  Spring  to  scorn! 
Yet,  if  unfriendly  thou,  with  sullen  skies, 

Bleak  rains,  or  moaning  winds,  dost  menace  wrong, 
Here  art  thou  foiled:  a  bridal  sun  shall  rise, 

And  bridal  emblems  unto  these  belong: 
Round  her  the  sunshine  of  her  beauty  lies, 

And  breathes  round  him  the  spring-time  of  his  song!" 

On  November  27  Mr.  Aldrich  wrote  to  his  sweet 
heart:  "This  is  the  last  letter  I  shall  probably  write 
to  Miss  Lilian  Woodman.  I  pray  God's  blessing  on 
her  now  and  forever." 

A  series  of  impressions,  pictures  not  yet  sorted  out 
by  memory,  linger  of  those  early,  blithesome  days 
in  Boston,  when  "Life  was  in  its  spring."  Mr. 
Greenslet  has  so  graphically  described  the  environ 
ment  of  those  happy  honeymoon  months  that  again 
I  quote  from  his  pages: 

"  It  was  not  long  before  the  Aldriches  found  them 
selves  sharing  the  communities  of  friendship  with 
the  elder  circle.  Fields  and  his  poet-wife  took  them 
under  a  friendly  wing,  and  it  was  in  their  long  draw 
ing-room  in  Charles  Street,  a  rich  treasury  of  lettered 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  87 

memories,  whose  windows  now  look  somewhat  sadly 
out  upon  the  river,  and  the  sunset,  that  they  first 
came  to  terms  of  intimacy  with  Longfellow,  Lowell, 
Holmes,  and  Emerson.  Our  poet's  charming  personal 
presence  and  ready  wit  soon  made  him  a  favorite 
with  the  elder  men,  and  the  acquaintance  thus  begun 
speedily  ripened  into  affectionate  friendship. 

"  Five  minutes'  walk  from  Hancock  Street,  in  the 
building  at  124  Tremont  Street,  at  the  corner  of 
Hamilton  Place,  overlooking  the  Common,  were  the 
offices  of  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  there  in  a  commodi 
ous  room,  with  bookshelves  and  an  open  fire,  Al- 
drich  applied  himself  to  the  editing  of  '  Every  Satur 
day,'  an  eclectic  weekly  supposed  to  carry  the  best 
of  foreign  periodical  literature." 

Soon  after  Mr.  Aldrich  was  so  comfortably  seated 
in  this  ideal  editor's  chair,  another  pilgrim,  "  with 
staff  and  sandal  shoon,"  came  to  share  in  the  new 
life,  rich  in  its  enchanted  vista  of  prosperity  and  joy 
—  Mr.  William  Dean  Howells  —  as  assistant  editor 
of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  sharing  the  duties  of 
editorship  with  Mr.  Fields.  In  his  "  Literary  Friends 
and  Acquaintance,"  Mr.  Howells  has  written  of 
their  first  meeting: 

"  The  publishing  house  which  so  long  embodied 
New  England  literature  was  already  attempting 
enterprises  out  of  the  line  of  its  traditions,  and  one 
of  these  had  brought  Mr.  T.  B.  Aldrich  a  few  weeks 


88  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

before  I  arrived  upon  the  scene.  Mr.  Aldrich  was  the 
editor  of  'Every  Saturday,'  when  I  came  to  be  as 
sistant  editor  of  the  'Atlantic  Monthly.'  We  were  of 
nearly  the  same  age,  but  he  had  a  distinct  and  dis 
tinguished  priority  of  reputation,  in  so  much  that  in 
my  Western  remoteness  I  had  always  ranged  him 
with  such  elders  and  betters  of  mine  as  Holmes  and 
Lowell,  and  never  imagined  him  the  blond  slight 
youth  I  found  him,  with  every  imaginable  charm  of 
contemporaneity." 

The  two  young  authors  were  thrown  much  to 
gether,  and  became  at  once  the  warmest  of  friends. 
Mr.  Howells  had  a  charming  personality,  happy  and 
gay,  in  love  with  literature  and  all  that  pertained 
to  it.  His  Pegasus,  being  well  broken  to  harness, 
daily,  at  a  regular  hour,  went  willingly  into  his 
shafts  and  soberly  trotted  away  his  allotted  hours,  to 
the  envy  and  despair  of  Mr.  Aldrich.  His  Pegasus, 
being  most  unruly,  always  refused  to  work  when 
bidden,  curveting  and  rearing,  kicking  over  the 
traces,  and  usually  ending  by  galloping  over  the 
hills  and  far  away. 

Mr.  Howells  received  the  appointment  of  Consul 
to  Venice  when  he  was  twenty-four  years  old,  hold 
ing  it  from  1861  to  1865.  The  four  years  in  Italy  were 
full  of  interest  to  his  young  bride  and  himself.  They 
had  established  themselves  at  the  Casa  Faliero  on 
the  Grand  Canal,  and  there  the  "  Sketches  of  Vene- 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOVVELLS 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  89 

tian  Life"  was  written,  and  offered  to  the  "Atlan 
tic"  —  to  be  declined  with  thanks. 

Very  amusing  was  Mrs.  Howells's  description  of 
the  difficulties  they  experienced  in  achieving  the 
marriage  ceremony,  and  the  ludicrously  disappoint 
ing  failures  met  with  before  it  was  accomplished. 

Mr.  Howells  could  not  leave  his  consulship  duties 
for  the  length  of  time  it  would  take  for  the  fast  ships 
of  that  time  to  cross  the  ocean.  (Eleven  days.)  It 
was  decided  that  Miss  Mead  and  her  brother  would 
go  to  Liverpool,  Mr.  Howells  to  meet  them  there  on 
the  arrival  of  the  steamer.  They  would  go  at  once  to 
the  house  of  a  minister  and  be  married,  and  then 
would  slowly  take  their  joyous  wedding  journey  to 
Venice.  But  fate  remorselessly  decreed  otherwise. 

Miss  Mead's  wedding  and  "  go-away-gown "  was 
combined  in  one,  a  simple  brown  dress  and  coat, 
with  the  close  little  bonnet  with  its  one  bridal  rose; 
her  new  gloves  were  a  shade  lighter  than  her  dress, 
and  loose,  that  she  might  easily  slip  and  free  the 
finger  for  the  wedding  ring.  As  the  steamer  dropped 
anchor  in  the  Mersey,  and  her  lover  from  the  ap 
proaching  tender  waved  his  greeting,  there  was  a 
little  catch  in  her  throat  with  the  knowledge  how 
imminent  was  the  hour  when  the  irrevocable  words 
would  be  spoken  —  the  vows  taken  that  would  end 
only  with  death.  When  the  excitement  of  the  meet 
ing  had  subsided  a  little,  Mr.  Howells  said  he  had 


90  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

been  disappointed  in  procuring  a  marriage  license; 
the  law  in  Liverpool  made  a  residence  of  some  days 
or  weeks  obligatory  before  a  marriage  could  be  le 
galized  ;  consequently  they  must  journey  up  to  Lon 
don  where  the  technical  difficulties  would  be  simpli 
fied.  To  London  they  gaily  went,  but  met  there  with 
no  better  success.  Like  "Japhet  in  Search  of  his 
Father"  they  went  on  from  city  to  city,  from  coun 
try  to  country,  until  after  four  or  five  wearisome 
days  they  arrived  somewhere,  where  after  sore  tribu 
lations  the  quest  ended,  and  the  marriage  was  sol 
emnized.  Mrs.  Howells,  between  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
said,  "  The  new  gloves  I  had  so  proudly  put  on  as  we 
left  the  ship  were  all  out  at  the  fingers,  and  my 
spirit  was  like  my  gloves,  torn  and  frayed  at  the 
edges." 

Boston  in  the  sixties  had  the  reputation,  deserved 
or  otherwise,  of  being  puritanical  and  rather  pro 
vincial  in  its  attitude  toward  strangers.  But  to  the 
four  young  persons  who  had  sought  shelter  within 
the  fold  the  advice  Mr.  Ward  McAllister  gave  to 
one  of  the  pilgrims  he  met  at  Mrs.  Howe's,  "To 
swear  she  had  an  ancestor  buried  on  Boston  Com 
mon,  that  all  doors  might  be  opened  to  her,"  did  not 
need  to  be  taken  to  insure  a  kindly  welcome  to  the 
inner  shrines.  Invitations  to  dinner  and  to  evening 
parties  were  constantly  coming  to  both  houses: 
"The  pleasure  of  your  company  to  meet  Mr.  and 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  91 

Mrs.  Howells":  "The  pleasure  of  your  company  to 
meet  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aldrich";  until  the  recipients  of 
these  attentions  with  hysterical  laughter  and  al 
most  tears  confessed  the  relief  it  would  be  to  go 
somewhere  —  anywhere,  where  they  would  never 
hear  or  see  each  other  again. 

In  that  happy  first  winter,  one  episode  is  always 
a  delightful  memory:  the  meeting  of  Mr.  Justin 
Winsor  and  the  friendship  that  followed. 

Very  shortly  after  Mr.  Aldrich's  marriage  an  ap 
preciative  criticism  of  one  of  his  poems  was  pub 
lished  in  a  New  York  paper,  "The  Round  Table." 
Mr.  Aldrich  wrote  a  note  of  thanks  to  the  writer, 
who  answered  it  by  saying  that  he  lived  in  Boston, 
and  should  give  himself  the  pleasure  of  calling.  The 
note  was  soon  followed  by  the  promised  visit. 

The  impression  of  that  evening  is  very  clear,  a 
face  and  figure  sharply  outlined  in  memory.  A  tall 
man,  rather  stout,  who  was  in  truth  but  thirty-four 
years  old,  looking,  however,  much  older;  quiet  in 
manner,  very  bookish  in  talk.  He  was  dressed  in 
black,  the  seams  of  his  coat  rather  shiny.  Mr.  Winsor 
spoke  of  a  life  he  was  writing  of  David  Garrick,  and 
said  that  unfortunately  he  had  collected  such  a  mass 
of  material  of  that  time  that  the  task  of  sifting 
it  seemed  hopelessly  discouraging.  When  the  door 
finally  closed  upon  the  departing  guest,  the  verdict 
was:  how  much  he  seemed  to  enjoy  his  evening;  evi- 


92  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

dently  a  recluse,  shut  away  from  the  world  of  men 
and  women;  seeing  life  only  through  other  eyes  and 
written  pages.  Later,  the  shining  seams  were  spoken 
of,  and  Mr.  Aldrich,  always  eager  to  be  of  assistance, 
said,  "I  might  give  him  some  translations  to  do  for 
'Every  Saturday'  from  the  French  and  German 
magazines.  The  pay  would  not  be  much,  but  it 
would  be  something." 

The  next  day  the  offer  was  made  and  accepted 
with  apparent  gratitude.  Mr.  Winsor,  in  bringing  the 
first  translation  to  the  office  of  "Every  Saturday," 
said  "that  he  would  be  much  pleased  if  the  Editor 
and  his  wife  would  name  a  day  when  they  would  be 
at  leisure  for  a  drive,  and  under  his  guidance  learn 
the  points  of  interest  in  their  new  city."  Mr.  Aldrich 
made  a  conventional  excuse  and  the  subject  was 
dropped,  to  be  again  resumed  when  the  next  article 
was  brought  to  the  editorial  chair.  After  declining 
several  times,  it  seemed  more  unkind  to  refuse  than 
to  accept  the  invitation.  With  great  reluctance  a 
day  was  set,  and  imagination  pictured  a  one-horse 
shay,  the  small  sum  of  money  made  by  the  French 
and  German  translations  ground  into  dust  under  its 
wheels,  and  the  two  unwilling  beneficiaries  power 
less  to  avert  the  unnecessary  expenditure.  There  was 
a  grave  conference  on  the  matter  of  dress  for  the 
occasion,  and  it  was  decreed  that  the  usual  street 
dress  was  much  too  modish  and  chic  —  that  a  cos- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  93 

tume  more  unobtrusive  would  be  in  better  taste.  At 
the  appointed  hour  a  slight  figure  in  a  simple  brown 
woollen  dress  and  coat  looking  from  the  window  saw 
a  carriage  stop  at  the  door.  A  handsome  span  of 
horses,  coachman  in  livery,  a  carriage  perfect  in  its 
appointments,  and  from  its  open  door  stepped,  with 
the  nonchalant  air  of  possession,  the  gentleman  of 
the  translations! 

Through  the  shadowy  mist  of  the  receding  years 
the  memory  of  the  friendship  and  the  little  drama 
enacted  nearly  every  day  through  that  first  winter 
in  Boston  is  very  clear  and  perfect;  the  stage  set  in 
one  scene:  a  large  square  room,  old-fashioned  and 
wainscoted  —  a  glowing  open  fire,  books  and  pic 
tures,  and  always  a  vase  of  flowers.  With  very  few 
exceptions  during  those  wintry  days,  at  four  o'clock 
there  would  be  heard  a  light  tap  at  the  door,  and  the 
questioning  hesitation  of  a  voice  asking,  "Shall  I 
disturb  you  if  I  come  for  a  half-hour's  chat  and  a 
seat  at  your  fireside?"  The  dramatis  persona  were 
but  two  in  this  little  play:  A  young  girl  who  knew 
little  of  book-lore,  and  a  man  who  had  been  a  stu 
dent  at  Heidelberg  and  Paris ;  a  classmate  of  Presi 
dent  Eliot,  John  Quincy  Adams,  and  Professor  A.  S. 
Hill,  J.  M.  Pierce,  and  other  equally  well-known 
scholars  —  a  man  of  unusual  learning,  of  tenacious 
memory,  and  with  an  intimate  knowledge  of  books 
and  all  that  relates  to  them  most  amazing. 


94  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

The  programme  of  the  hour  was  ever  the  same. 
The  largest  and  easiest  chair  drawn  to  the  fire,  and 
while  the  tea  was  brewing  the  long  fork  held  and 
toasted  the  bread.  Sometimes  there  was  pleasant 
talk,  and  sometimes  long  silence,  but  always  the 
two  were  the  most  companionable  of  comrades.  Al 
though  Mr.  Winsor  could  in  truth  be  named  a  verita 
ble  bookworm  —  versed  in  all  literature,  a  man  of 
letters  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word  —  in  this  hour 
books  were  rarely  talked  of.  Mr.  David  Garrick  was 
often  present,  real  and  tangible  as  Hamlet's  ghost, 
he  appeared  and  disappeared,  and  came  again,  often 
making  a  third  in  many  a  cheerful  duet. 

In  the  following  year  there  was  a  vacancy  hi  the 
board  of  trustees  of  the  Boston  Public  Library,  and 
it  was  the  happy  fortune  of  Mr.  Winsor's  young 
friend  to  speak  of  him  in  this  connection  to  a  man 
high  up  in  the  city's  affairs.  The  result  was  the  au 
thority  given  to  ask  Mr.  Winsor  whether,  if  a  place 
was  offered  to  him,  he  would  accept  it,  and  with 
his  affirmative  answer  he  unconsciously  entered  on 
his  great  career. 

Years  afterwards,  at  a  congress  of  librarians  in  a 
notable  address,  Mr.  Winsor  told  how  a  door  held 
open  to  him  by  the  hand  of  a  young  woman  friend 
had  given  him  entrance  to  a  new  world  —  his 
heart's  desire. 

Mr.  Winsor  was  librarian  in  succession  to  the  Bos- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  95 

ton  Public  Library  and  Harvard  University.  In  the 
radical  change  of  the  administrations  of  all  great 
libraries  he  was  a  pioneer,  and  future  organizers  will 
have  to  begin  by  accepting  all  of  Mr.  Winsor's  work 
as  a  foundation. 

With  the  broader  sphere  and  active  duties  of  his 
new  position  he  could  no  longer  be  a  recluse  —  a 
student  living  in  the  shadow  of  his  library,  with  its 
carven  shelves  filled  with  books  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
where  day  after  day  he  had  passed  his  silent  hours. 
In  place  of  the  life  that  now  lay  behind  him,  "to  a 
very  large  number  of  men  he  gave  himself  and  his 
stores  of  knowledge,  with  a  completeness  of  interest 
in  their  problems  and  in  themselves,  and  a  power  of 
detachment  from  his  own  concerns,  which  made 
them  turn  to  him  as  to  no  other  adviser."  With  us, 
however,  with  the  passing  of  this  year  the  intimate 
bonds  of  his  friendship  seemed  loosened.  When  our 
Lares  and  Penates  were  transferred  to  the  new 
home,  we  saw  Mr.  Winsor  but  seldom.  He  came  two 
or  three  times  to  the  house,  but  was  silent  and  dis 
trait.  After  a  serious  illness  of  his  young  friend,  he 
sent  her  a  huge  box  of  roses  with  an  affectionate 
note,  and  from  that  time  there  was  ever  silence. 

"Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 

Vexed  him?  Was  it  touch  of  hand, 
Turn  of  head?" 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  the  "Life"  of  Mr.  Aldrich  his  biographer  says: 
"  Despite  the  pleasantness  of  the  life  at  Hancock 
Street,  the  Aldriches  were  from  the  first  looking 
about  for  a  still  more  homelike  shelter.  Finally  in 
December,  1866,  Aldrich  purchased  the  quaint  little 
house  84  Pinckney  Street,  two  thirds  the  way  down 
toward  the  bay  where  the  lazy  Charles  rests  after  its 
circuitous  course  through  the  Cambridge  marshes, 
and  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Aldrich  for  his  remembrance  on 
the  second  Christmas  of  their  life  together.  They 
furnished  it  at  their  leisure  during  the  winter  and 
settled  there  in  the  spring  of  1867.  Of  the  character 
istic  charm  of  this  their  first  home  there  are  many 
records.  The  compact  little  house  soon  became  cele 
brated  as  the  happy  home  of  a  happy  poet." 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  this  year  that  Boston  had 
the  great  excitement  of  welcoming  Mr.  Dickens  on 
his  second  visit  to  America.  For  several  years  Mr. 
Fields  had  been  persistent  in  his  efforts  to  induce 
Mr.  Dickens  to  make  the  visit;  but  it  was  not  until 
this  time  that  the  suggestion  received  any  encour 
agement.  In  the  early  spring  Mr.  Dickens  wrote  to 
Mr.  Fields  the  following  letter: 

"Your  letter  is  an  excessively  difficult  one  to 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  97 

answer,  because  I  really  do  not  know  that  any  sum 
of  money  that  could  be  laid  down  would  induce  me 
to  cross  the  Atlantic  to  read.  Nor  do  I  think  it  likely 
that  any  one  on  your  side  of  the  great  water  can 
be  prepared  to  understand  the  state  of  the  case.  For 
example,  I  am  now  just  finishing  a  series  of  thirty 
readings.  The  crowds  attending  them  have  been  so 
astounding,  and  the  relish  for  them  has  so  far  out 
gone  all  previous  experience,  that  if  I  were  to  set 
myself  the  task,  '  I  will  make  such  or  such  a  sum  of 
money  by  devoting  myself  to  readings  for  a  certain 
time,'  I  should  have  to  go  no  further  than  Bond 
Street  or  Regent  Street,  to  have  it  secured  to  me  in  a 
day.  Therefore,  if  a  specific  offer  and  a  very  large 
one,  indeed,  were  made  to  me  from  America,  I 
should  naturally  ask  myself,  'Why  go  through  this 
wear  and  tear,  merely  to  pluck  fruit  that  grows  on 
every  bough  at  home?'  It  is  a  delightful  sensation  to 
move  a  new  people;  but  I  have  but  to  go  to  Paris, 
and  I  find  the  brightest  people  in  the  world  quite 
ready  for  me.  I  say  thus  much  in  a  sort  of  desperate 
endeavor  to  explain  myself  to  you.  I  can  put  no 
price  upon  fifty  readings  in  America,  because  I  do 
not  know  that  any  possible  price  could  pay  me  for 
them.  And  I  really  cannot  say  to  any  one  disposed 
toward  the  enterprise,  'Tempt  me,'  because  I  have 
too  strong  a  misgiving  that  he  cannot  in  the  nature 
of  things  do  it. 


98  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

"This  is  the  plain  truth.  If  any  distinct  proposal 
be  submitted  to  me  I  will  give  it  a  distinct  answer. 
But  the  chances  are  a  round  thousand  to  one  that 
the  answer  will  be  no,  therefore  I  feel  bound  to  make 
the  declaration  beforehand." 

In  the  summer,  however,  things  looked  more 
promising;  the  second  letter  bringing  more  assur 
ance: 

"I  am  trying  hard  so  to  free  myself  as  to  be  able 
to  come  over  to  read  this  next  winter!" 

On  the  2 1st  of  August  he  writes:  "I  begin  to 
think  'nautically*  that  I  'Head  westward.'"  And 
soon  after  that  the  date  was  set  for  sailing. 

It  was  on  a  blustering  evening  in  November  that 
Mr.  Dickens  arrived  in  Boston  Harbor.  A  few  of  his 
friends  steamed  down  in  the  Custom-House  boat  to 
welcome  him.  It  was  pitch  dark  before  the  Cuba  ran 
alongside.  Mr.  Dickens's  cheery  voice  was  heard 
welcoming  Mr.  Fields  before  there  was  time  to  dis 
tinguish  him  on  the  steamer.  He  looked  like  a  bun 
dle  of  animated  wraps,  and  was  in  most  exuberant 
spirits;  the  news  of  the  extraordinary  sale  of  the 
tickets  to  his  readings  having  been  carried  to  him  by 
the  pilot  twenty  miles  out.  Mr.  Fields,  having  heard 
that  a  crowd  had  assembled  in  East  Boston  and  was 
waiting  the  arrival  of  the  steamer,  decided  to  take 
his  guest  in  the  tug  to  Long  Wharf  where  carriages 
were  in  waiting,  and  very  shortly  Mr.  Dickens  was 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  99 

well  ensconced  at  the  Parker  House,  sitting  down  to 
dinner  with  a  half-dozen  friends,  quite  prepared,  he 
said,  "to  give  the  first  reading  in  America  that  night 
if  desirable." 

There  had  been  the  greatest  excitement  over  the 
sale  of  the  tickets  for  the  readings.  A  box  office  was 
established  at  Ticknor  &  Fields',  and  a  rule  made 
that  only  four  tickets  would  be  sold  to  one  person. 
A  queue  was  formed  twenty-four  hours  before  the 
sale  began,  and  the  stir  and  commotion  for  places  in 
the  line  were  without  precedent  heretofore  in  the 
city.  As  Mr.  Aldrich  was  doing  editorial  work  for 
Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  that  house  being  the  head 
quarters  of  literary  Boston,  the  air  was  full  of  Dick 
ens  —  we  breathed  it.  The  struggles  to  get  the  best 
seats,  the  triumph  with  which,  after  much  hustling, 
they  were  secured,  linger  most  pleasantly  in  my 
memory,  especially  our  own  little  chuckles  —  we 
being  behind  the  scenes,  as  it  were,  and  sure  of  our 
places. 

Boston  has  changed  much  since  the  days  when  she 
dined  at  two  o'clock,  asked  her  more  formal  friends 
to  tea  at  six,  and  made  the  stranger  within  her  gates 
the  all-absorbing  topic.  Now  we  talk  of  balls,  din 
ners,  dances,  and  our  literary  guest  closes  his  book 
and  goes  to  the  opera  or  the  vaudeville  with  us. 

What  memories  unfold  themselves  to  my  vision 
of  that  night,  December  2,  1867;  the  night  of  the 


ioo  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

first  appearance  of  Mr.  Dickens  in  the  Tremont 
Temple!  Again  I  am  conscious  of  the  expectant 
hush  as  Mr.  Dickens  appears,  book  in  hand,  white 
boutonnibre  in  buttonhole.  With  quick,  elastic  steps 
he  takes  his  place.  The  whole  audience  spring  to 
their  feet,  while  round  after  round  of  applause, 
cheer  after  cheer,  shout  after  shout  of  welcome  greet 
him.  On  the  stage  is  a  simple  device,  designed  by 
Mr.  Dickens,  looking  like  a  reading-desk,  with  a 
light  so  arranged  as  to  illuminate  the  reader's  face; 
behind  it  stands  a  long,  dark,  purplish  screen.  With 
a  magician's  touch  the  simple  desk  transforms  itself, 
supple  to  the  master's  will  —  at  one  time  a  kind  of 
pulpit  with  brass  rail,  the  witness  box;  next  the  en 
closed  seats  where  the  jurymen  sit;  then  a  numerous 
muster  of  gentlemen  in  wigs,  the  barristers'  seats; 
then  it  became  the  table  for  Mr.  Justice  Stareleigh, 
"who  put  his  little  legs  underneath  it  and  his  little 
three-cornered  hat  upon  it;  and  when  Mr.  Justice 
Stareleigh  had  done  this,  all  you  could  see  of  him 
was  two  queer  little  eyes,  one  broad  pink  face,  and 
somewhere  about  half  of  a  big  and  very  comical- 
looking  wig.  The  officer  on  the  floor  of  the  court 
called  out,  '  Silence ! '  in  a  commanding  tone,  and  the 
great  case  of  Bardwell  and  Pickwick  began,"  hold 
ing  the  listeners  still  and  motionless  until  the  fore 
man  brought  in  the  verdict  of  "Guilty"  and  fined 
the  defendant  seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  101 

Then  Sam  Waller's  father  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder  and,  with  a  mournful  expression,  said, 
"*O,  Sammy,  Sammy,  vy  worn't  there  a  alleybi!'" 
With  this  the  great  audience  shouted  with  laughter, 
and  the  wild  applause  began  again  with  gathered 
volume,  until  even  the  walls  of  Tremont  Temple 
itself  seemed  to  echo  and  vibrate  as  a  pendulum 
disturbed  from  rest  and  swinging  to  and  fro. 

Never  to  be  forgotten  is  the  accent  and  modu 
lation  of  Mr.  Dickens's  voice  as  he  spoke  the  words: 
"Marley  was  dead  to  begin  with."  The  great  audi 
ence  was  held  in  breathless  silence  as  the  ghost  and 
Scrooge  and  the  jocund  travellers,  the  phantom, 
the  spirits,  went  and  came  through  the  pages  of  the 
"Christmas  Carol";  until  little  Tiny  Tim  observed, 
"God  bless  us,  every  one!"  And  with  these  words, 
the  wonderful  evening  was  over. 

Walking  home  through  the  still  wintry  air,  Mr. 
Aldrich  spoke  of  a  letter  he  had  seen  written  to 
Professor  Felton  when  the  book  was  first  published, 
showing  what  the  writing  of  the  book  had  meant  to 
Mr.  Dickens: 

"In  the  parcel  you  will  find  a  Christmas  Carol  in 
prose,  being  a  short  story  of  Christmas  by  Charles 
Dickens,  over  which  Christmas  Carol  Charles 
Dickens  wept  and  laughed  and  wept  again,  and  ex 
cited  himself  in  the  most  extraordinary  manner  in 
the  composition,  and  thinking  whereof  he  walked 


102  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

about  the  black  streets  of  London  fifteen  and  twenty 
miles  many  a  night." 

So  distinct  is  the  memory  of  the  first  time  Mr. 
Dickens  came  to  our  house  in  Pinckney  Street  that 
I  even  see  the  figure  in  the  carpet  on  which  he  stood. 
Mrs.  Hawthorne  had  named  this  small  house  "Mrs. 
Aldrich's  workbox."  It  was  mostly  composed  of 
white  muslin  and  pink  ribbons,  white  muslin  and 
blue  ribbons,  all  excepting  Mr.  Aldrich's  study, 
which  Mr.  Howells,  to  our  great  discomfiture,  always 
spoke  of  as  "Aldrich's  boudoir" ;  as  he  always  spoke 
of  his  own  study  as  his  workshop,  our  feelings  were 
hurt  and  bitter.  We  said  to  each  other  it  was  nothing 
but  sheer  envy,  and  endeavored  in  this  way  to  soothe 
the  wound. 

If  the  Sultan  of  Zanzibar,  the  Czar  of  all  Russia, 
the  Grand  Mogul  of  India,  and  all  the  crowned 
heads  of  Europe  combined  should  knock  at  our 
door,  it  would  not  throw  the  entire  household  into 
such  a  frenzy  and  flutter  as  that  simple  card  did, 
with  its  magic  name,  "Mr.  Charles  Dickens." 

I  well  remember  the  quick  beating  of  my  heart 
as  I  descended  the  stairs  to  the  "boudoir,"  where  I 
found  Mr.  Dickens  seated  in  the  easiest  chair  in  the 
bay  window.  A  rather  short,  slight  figure,  so  he 
seemed  to  me  then,  without  the  manner  that  stamps 
the  caste  of  "Vere  de  Vere."  He  was  dressed  —  I 
think  dressed  is  the  right  word  —  in  a  very  light,  so 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  103 

light  that  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  it  —  I  can 
almost  say  soiled  white  color  —  top  coat.  It  was 
wide  and  short,  and  stood  out  like  a  skirt,  the  collar 
of  a  much  darker  shade  of  velvet.  His  waistcoat  was 
velvet  of  another  shade  of  brown,  with  brilliant  red 
indentations;  his  watch  chain  was  buttoned  into  the 
centre  button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  then  it  divided 
itself.  I  found  myself  saying,  "How  do  you  do,"  and 
wondering,  if  the  watch  was  in  one  pocket,  what 
was  at  the  other  end  of  the  chain  in  the  other  pocket, 
and  was  tempted  to  ask  him  the  time,  in  the  hope 
that  he  might  make  a  mistake  and  bring  out  the 
other  thing.  I  don't  remember  what  he  wore  on  his 
feet,  and  I  don't  know  the  plaid  of  his  trousers,  but 
I  rather  think  it  was  a  black-and-white  check  — • 
what  the  Englishman  calls  "pepper  and  salt."  I 
don't  remember  any  one  topic  of  conversation  on 
that  first  visit,  but  I  remember  well  the  laughter 
and  good  cheer;  the  charming  way  in  which  the 
guest  made  these  two  young  people  feel  that  to  him 
they  really  were  persons  of  consequence  and  were 
so  regarded  by  this  prince  of  strangers  who  tarried 
within  their  gates. 

On  our  first  Thanksgiving  in  this  box  of  a  house, 
Mr.  Fields  by  chance  came  in.  It  was  a  cold  day 
and  snowing,  which  made  the  house,  in  contrast  to 
the  "biting  and  nipping  air"  outside,  seem  more 
gay  and  cheerful  with  the  open  fires,  flowers,  and  the 


io4  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

table  set  for  dinner  with  the  wedding  presents  of 
silver  and  glass.  Mr.  Fields  said,  "Oh,  Dickens  has 
got  to  come  and  see  this!"  So  off  he  went  to  bring 
him. 

In  those  happy  days  my  mainstay  and  depend 
ence  was  an  austere  lady  who  consented  to  live  with 
us  for  the  modest  sum  of  five  dollars  per  week,  which 
would  include  the  services  of  herself  and  daughter. 
It  is  true  that  this  daughter  had  lived  in  this  great 
world  of  ours  but  six  years;  but  Mrs.  Sterling  felt 
that  Lizzie  was  a  sufficient  grown-up  to  answer  the 
doorbell,  wait  at  the  table,  and,  as  Mrs.  Sterling 
said,  "serve  it  all,"  if  she,  Mrs.  Sterling,  "waited  in 
the  pantry  to  lift  the  heavy  dishes  to  and  fro  from 
the  table."  Lizzie  was  also  an  accomplished  duster, 
and  could  run  up  and  down  stairs  on  all  kinds  of 
errands,  and  also  knew  cause  and  effect,  as  I  re 
member  her  assuring  me  one  day,  when  the  fire 
bells  rang,  "that  she  supposed  some  one  had  been 
fiddling  with  kerosene." 

Added  to  all  these  accomplishments,  Lizzie  was 
a  composite  portrait  of  all  the  old  Dutch  masters, 
in  her  mouse-colored  dress  reaching  almost  to  the 
ground;  a  long  white  tire  with  full  bishop  sleeves, 
hair  braided  on  each  side  of  her  brow,  and  tied  with 
the  same  mouse-colored  ribbon  in  a  prim  bow. 

Mr.  Fields  soon  returned  with  his  distinguished 
guest,  who  was,  I  remember,  to  dine  with  Mr.  Long- 


\FA 


THE   GREAT   INTERNA1 

OK  FKBRI 

THE  origin  of  this  highly  exciting  and  important  event  cannot  be 

THE    . 

Articles   of  Agreement  entered   into  at    Baltimore,   in 

the    \ear   of    our   Lord   one   thousand   eight    hundred    am 

the    Man    of  Ross,   and    JAM.-    r 

Whereas,   some   Bounce   hav 

pcdestrianism    and    agility,  they  V 

Ix-ttcr  man.  by  means  of  a  walk 

live  countries;  and  whereas  they  agree  that  the  said  match  shall  come  oil',  wh. 
weather,  on  the  Mill  Ham  nod  "outside  Boston  on  Saturday,  the  Twenly-ninth  . 
present  month;  and  whereas  they  agree  that  the  personal  attendants  on  theinse 
the  whole  walk,  and  also  the  umpires  and  starters  and  declarers  of  victory  in  the 

;',!' „.  Ix;  JAMKS  T.  FIKUK  of  Boston,  known  in  sporting  circles  as   Massachusetts  Jemmv.  a 

PII-KKXS  of  FalstarT's  Gad's  Hill,  whose'  surprising  ixrlormanccs  (without  the  least  v 
that   truly  national    instrument,  the   American   Catarrh,  haw  won  ff 
of  The  Gad's  Hill  Gasper. 

Now,  these  are  to  be  the  articles  of  the  mati  h   — 

i.  The  men  are  to  be  started,  on  the  day  appointed,  by.  Massachusetts  Jemmy  and  The  Gasper. 
1.  Jemmy  and  The  Gasper  arc,  on  some  previous  day.  to  walk  out  at  the  rate  of  not 'less  than  four  m 
by  the  Gasper's  watch,  for  one  hour  and  a  half.  At  the  expiration  of  thai  one  hour  and  a  half,  they  arc 
note  the  place  at  which  they  halt.  On  the  match's  coming  off.  they  arc.  to  station  themselves  in  the  mi 
road,  at  that  precise  point,  and  the  men  (keeping  clear  of  them  and  <if  each  other)  are' to  turn  round 
shoulder  inward,  and  walk  back  to  the  starting-point  The  man  declared  l>\  them  to  pass  the  starling-] 
to  be  the  victor  and  the  winner  of  the  match. 

3.  No  jostling  or  fouling  allowed. 

4.  All   cautions  or  orders  issued    to   the  men   by  the    umpires,  starters,  and  declarers  of  victory,   t.,  Ix   considei 
final  and  admitting  of  no  appeal. 

THE    SPORT1 

T  H  l:.     M  K  X  . 

TIIK  Boston  Bantam  (alias  Bright  Chanticleer)  U  a  young  bird  though  t<«.  old  to  be  caught  with  ch. 
of  a  thorough  game  breed  and  has  a  clear  though  rm,dcst  crow.  I  le  pulls  down  the  scale  at  ten  st. 
and  add  a  pound  or  two.  His  previous  performances  in  the  Pedestrian  line  have  not  been  numen 
achieved  a  neat  little  match  against  time  in  two  left  boots  at  Philadelphia ;  but  this  must  Ix-  c. 
pedestrian  eccentricity,  and  cannot  be  accepted  by  the  rigid  chronicler  as  high  art.  The  old  m« 
scythe  and  hour-glass  has  not  yet  laid  his  mawlcy  heavily  on  the  Bantam's  frontispiece,  but  he  has  had 
Bantam's  top  feathers,  and  in  plucking  out  a  handful  was  very  near  making  him  like  the  great  Xajxil 
(with  the  exception  of  the  victualling-department),  when  the  ancient  one  found  himself  too  much'  ix-c 
out  the  idea,  and  gave  it  up.  The  Man  of  Ross  (alias  old  Alick  Pope,  alias  Allourpraiseswh;  should! 
thought  and  a  half  too  fleshy,  and,  if  he  accidentally  sat  down  upon  his  baby,  would  do  it  to  the  tu 
stone.  This  popular  Codger  is  of  the  rubicund  and  jovial  sort,  and  has  long  been  known  as  a  piseati 
on  the  banks  of  the  Wye.  But  Izaak  Walton  had  n't  Pace,  — look  at  hi*  Ixx.k  and  you  II  find  it  slo. 
that  article  comes  in  question,  the  fishing-rod  may  prove  to  some  of  his  disciples  a  rod  in  pickle. 
Man  of  Koss  is  a  Lively  Ambler  and  has  a  smart  stride  of  his  own. 


me    and  a  h 

nsidcrcd  as 
.wer  «ith  I 

a  grip  .it  t 
ron  Konapai 
ipicd  to  cai 
.rds.  &c.)  » 
le  of  fourte 
rial  pcdestri 
i-.  — and  wh 

Hovvbeit,  t 


THE     TRAINING. 

If   Brandy  Cocktails    could   have   brought   both  men  up  to   the  post    in   tip-top   feather,  their  condition  would 
left  nothing  to  be  desired.      But  both  might  have  had  more  daily  practice  in  the  poetry  of  motion.      Thei 
were  confined  to  an  occasional   Baltimore  burst  under  the  guidance  of  the  Gasper,  and   to  an  amicable  toddle  be 
themselves  at  Washington. 

THE    COURSE. 

Six  miles  and  a  half,  good  measure,  from  the  first  tree  on  the  Mill  Dam  road,  lies  the  little  village  (with  no 
mcnts  ia  it  but  five  oranges  and  a  bottle  of  blacking)  of  Newton  Centre.  Here,  Massachusetts  Jemmy  and  the 
had  established  the  turning-point  The  road  comprehended  ever)  variety  of  inconvenience  to  test  the  mettle 
men,  and  nearly  the  whole  of  it  was  covered  with  snow. 

THE     START 

was  effected  bcaiiiifully.     The  men,  taking  their  stand  in  exact  line  at  the  starting-post,  the  first  tree  aforesaid, 
from    The    Gasper    the   warning.  "Are   you   ready?"   and   then   the   signal,    "One.  two,   three.   Go!"      They  got  a»J 
exactly  together,  and  at  a  spinning  speed,  waited  on  by  Massachusetts  Jemmy  and  The  Gasper. 


LEJ 


>NAL   WALKING-MATCH 

29,  1868. 

•  stated  than  in  the  articles  of  agreement  subscribed  by  the  parties. 
CLES. 

5.  .\   s|x>rting  narrative    i.f  the   match    to   be    written    by  The  Gamier  within. one   week  aftei    it- < -inning  off,    and 
same  to   be   duly   printed   (at   the  expense   of  the  subscribers   to  *hese  articles)  on   a   broadside.     The  said  bmad- 

u    to   lx-    framed    and  glazed,  and   one    copy  of  the    same  to  be  carefully    preserved    by    each    of    the.  subscribers    to 

6.  The    men    to    -how  on    the    evening    of    the    day   of  waiting,    at   six    o'clock    precisely,   at    the    Parker    House, 
ston.  when    ami  where   a  dinner  will    be   given   them    by  The  Gasper.     The  Gasper  to  occupy  the  chair,   faced   by 
issachusctts  Jemmy.     The  latter  promptly  and  formally  to  invite,  as  soon  as  may  be  after  the  date  of  these  presents, 

following  Guest-  to  honor  the  said  dinner  with  their  presence:  that  is  to  say: — Mistress  Annie  Fields,  Mr. 
arles  Kliot  Norton  and  Mrs.  Norton,  Professor  James  Russell  Lowell  and  Mrs.  Lowell  and  Miss  Lowell,  Doctor 
vcr  Wendell  Holmes  and  Mrs.  Holmes,  Mr.  Howard  Malcom  Ticknor  and  Mrs.  Ticknor,  Mr.  Aldrich  and  Mrs. 
irich.  Mr.  Schlesingcr,  and  an  obscure  jxn-t  named  Longfellow  (if  discoverable)  and-  Miss  Longfellow. 

Now,  Lastly.  In  token  of  their  accepting  the  trusts  and  offices  by  these  articles  conferred  upon  them,  these 
ides  an-  solemnly  ami  formally  signed  by  Massachusetts  Jemmy  and  by  the  Gad's  Hill  Gasper,  as  well  as  by  the 
n  themselves. 


Signed   by  the    Man   of  Ross,  otherwise 

Signed   by  the    lioston    Bantam,   otherwise       £/T?-t1t-C<S    ' 'T    ( X/ft. tf 

Signed    by  Massachusetts   Jemmy,  otherwise         </ O^tl 

Signed    by  The   Gads    I  fill  Uasper. 
Witness    to    the   signatures. 

NARRATIVE. 

I  HE     RACE. 

In  the  teeth  of  an  intensely  cold  and  bitter  wind  before  which  the  snow  flew  fast  and  furious  across  the  road  from 
it  to  left.  The  Bantam  slightly  led.  But  The  Man  responded  to  the  challenge  and  soon  breasted  him.  For  the 
I  three  miles,  each  led  by  a  yard  or  so  alternately  ;  but  the  walking  was  very  even.  On  four  miles  being  called 
The  Gasper,  the  men  were  side  by  side  ;  and  then  ensued  one  of  the  best  periods  of  the  race,  the  same-  splitting 
e  biiing  held  by  both,  through  a  heavy  snow-wreath  and  up  a  dragging  hill.  At  this  point  it  was  anybody's  game, 
lollar  on  Rossius  and  two  halMoIIars  on  the  member  of  the  feathery  tribe.  When  five  miles  were  called,  the 
i  were  still  shoulder  to  shoulder.  At  about  six  miles,  the  Gasper  put  on  a  tremendous  spirt  to  leave  the  men 
ind  and  establish  himself  as  the  turning-point  at  the  entrance  of  the  village.  He  afterwards  declared  that  he 
:ived  a  mental  knock-downer,  on  taking  his  station  and  racing  about,  to  find  Bright  Chanticleer  close  in  upon  him, 
',  Rossius  steaming  up  like  a  Locomotive.  The  Bantam  rounded  first;  Rossius  rounded- wide;  and  from  that 
ment  the  Bantam  steadily  shot  ahead.  Though  both  were  breathed  at  the  turn,  the  Bantam  quickly  got  his 
ows  into  obedient  condition,  and  blew  away  like  an  orderly  Blacksmith  in  full  work.  The  forcing-pumps  of  Rossius 
wise  proved  themselves  tough  and  true,  and  warranted  first-rate,  but  he  fell  off'  in  pace  ;  whereas  the  Bantam  pegged 
ly  with  his  little  drum-sticks,  as  if  he  saw  his  wives  and  a  peck  of  barley  waiting  for  him  at  the  family  perch, 
itinually  gaining  upon  him  of  Ross,  Chanticleer  gradually  drew  ahead  within  a  very  few  yards  of  half  a  mile,  finally 
ng  the  whole  distance  in  two  hours  and  forty-eight  minutes.  Ross  had  ceased  to  compete,  three  miles  short  of  the 
ning-post.  but  bravely  walked  it  out,  ami  came  in  seven  minutes  later. 

REMARKS. 

The  difficulties  under  which  this  plucky  match  was  walked  can  only  be  appreciated  by  those  who  were  on  the 
und.  To  the  excessive  rigour  of  the  icy  blast,  and  the  depth  and  state  of  the  snow,  must  be  added  the  constant 
ttering  of  the  latter  into  the  air  and  into  the  eyes  of  the  men,  while  heads,  of  hair,  beards,  eyelashes,  and  eye- 
ws,  were  frozen  into  icicles.  To  breathe  at  all,  in  such  a  rarefied  and  disturbed  atmosphere,  was  not  easy ;  but  to 
athe  op  to  the  required  mark  was  genuine,  slagging,  ding-dong,  hard  labor.  That  both  competitors  were  game  to 

backbone,  doing  what  'they  did  under  such  conditions,  was  evident  to  all  ;  but,  to  his  gameness,  the  courageous 
>tam  added  unexpected  endurance,  and  (like  the  sailor's  watch  that  did  three  hours  to  the  cathedral  clock's  one) 
xpcctcd  powers  of  going  when  wound  up.  The  knowing  eye  could  not  fail  to  detect  considerable  disparity  between 

lads;  Chanticleer  being,  as  Mr*  Cratchit  said  of  Tiny  Tim,  "  very  light  to  carry,"  and  Rossius  promising  lair  to 
jn  the  rotundity  of  the  Anonymous  Cove  in  the  epigram: 

"  Anit  when  he  walk*  the  streets  the  "pavioiirs  cry, 
•(KX)  blcsj  you,  «ir!'  ,ind  Ujr  Ikeir  rammer*  by." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  105 

fellow  that  day.  After  a  pleasant  chat  in  the  library, 
Mr.  Dickens  turned  to  me  saying,  ''Now  I  want  to 
see  the  little  maid.  I  have  heard  all  about  her."  So 
I  went  on  the  quest;  and  soon  the  demure  little 
Dutch  picture  walked  in  with  her  silver  tray,  de 
canter,  and  wine-glass.  Going  up  to  Mr.  Dickens  she 
said,  with  her  alluring  lisp,  "If  you  please,  sir,  will 
you  take  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  biscuit?  "  Mr.  Dick 
ens  poured  out  his  glass  of  wine,  and  with  a  courtly 
bow  to  us,  and  a  lower  one  to  the  little  maid,  drank 
to  our  health  and  happiness ;  and  when  the  little  maid 
departed  put  his  head  on  the  cushion  of  his  chair  and 
laughed  and  laughed.  Then  turning  to  me  he  said, 
"Now  I  want  to  see  this  wonderful  house  from  top 
to  bottom,  from  cellar  to  attic."  We  showed  it  to 
him  with  honest  and  possessive  pride,  and  when 
his  visit  was  over  he  said,  in  leaving,  that  nothing 
in  our  country  had  interested  him  more.  We  have 
wondered  since  if,  in  telling  of  his  visit  to  others,  he 
did  not  say  that  nothing  in  our  country  had  amused 
him  more. 

The  next  play  on  our  happy  stage  of  life  was  the 
"walking  match"  and  the  dinner  Mr.  Dickens  gave 
to  the  victorious  champion. 

Mr.  Fields  says,  in  his  "Yesterdays  with  Au 
thors,"  that  it  was  in  Baltimore  that  Mr.  Dickens 
conceived  his  idea  of  a  walking  match  between  Mr. 
Osgood  and  Mr.  Dolby,  and  that  he  went  into  this 


106  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

matter  with  as  much  earnest  directness  as  if  he  were 
planning  a  new  novel. 

The  articles  of  this  joyous  joke  were  drawn  up 
and  sent  to  the  house  of  Ticknor  &  Fields  with  as 
much  circumstance  and  official  dignity  as  if  they 
were  papers  relating  to  the  making  of  a  new  presi 
dent. 

When  this  great  international  battle  was  over,  and 
America  had  won,  came  the  brilliant  dinner  at  the 
Parker  House.1  Impressed  on  my  memory  for  all 
time  will  be  the  picture  of  that  night:  a  long  table 
with  its  beautiful  arrangement  of  flowers  arranged 
by  Mr.  Dickens  himself,  and  so  designed  that  at 
the  end  of  the  feast  they  easily  disintegrated,  giv 
ing  each  woman  a  lovely  bouquet  de  corsage.  The 
dinner  place  cards  were  an  innovation  new  to  Boston. 
Mine  was  a  gay  little  colored  picture  of  a  table  laid 
for  two,  and  the  bridegroom  (for  I  am  sure  it  was 
a  bridal  party)  with  uplifted  glass  drinking  a  bene 
diction  to  his  bride. 

There  were  no  set  speeches  that  night,  as  indeed 
there  need  not  be  with  that  company;  such  wit  and 

1  "Distinguished  Company. 

"  Charles  Dickens  to  preside  and  James  T.  Fields  to  be  seated 
opposite.  Mrs.  Annie  Fields,  Charles  Eliot  Norton  and  Mrs.  Norton, 
Prof.  James  Russell  Lowell  and  Mrs.  Lowell,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  and  Mrs.  Holmes,  Mr.  Howard  Malcolm  Ticknor  and  Mrs. 
Ticknor,  Mr.  Aldrich  and  Mrs.  Aldrich,  Mr.  Schlesinger,  and  an 
obscure  poet  named  Longfellow  (if  discoverable)  and  Miss  Long 
fellow." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  107 

laughter  that  made  even  the  sparkle  of  the  cham 
pagne  seem  dull  and  lifeless.  The  host  at  the  head 
of  his  table  was  the  incarnation  of  joy  on  a  cruise 
of  pleasure.  Every  fibre  of  his  body  was  unrestrained 
and  alert  with  good-fellowship,  so  that  even  the 
youngest  and  shyest  guest,  who  had  nothing  to  con 
tribute  to  such  a  company  but  her  youth  and  appre 
ciation,  forgot  to  be  self-conscious. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  memorable  visit  of  Mr. 
Dickens,  the  composite  little  Dutch  picture  appeared 
in  the  "boudoir"  bringing  with  her  a  tiny  silver  tray 
on  which  lay  a  visiting  card,  "  Mr.  Henry  W.  Long 
fellow."  The  lisping  voice  made  haste  to  say,  "I 
said  the  Master  and  Mistress  was  home.  1  askeded 
him  into  the  dining-room  and  I  told  him  to  set 
down." 

Mr.  Longfellow  at  this  time  had  passed  his  six 
tieth  birthday.  The  awful  chasm  which,  without  the 
slightest  warning,  had  opened  at  his  feet  in  the 
tragedy  of  his  wife's  death  had  made  him  look  much 
older  than  his  years  could  count.  Time  never  as 
suaged  the  wound  of  that  bereavement.  He  spoke  or 
wrote  of  it  only  in  the  fewest  words.  Once  in  writing 
to  Mr.  Curtis  he  said,  "I  am  utterly  wretched  and 
overwhelmed ;  to  the  eyes  of  others  outwardly  calm, 
but  inwardly  bleeding  to  death."  The  spiritual 
beauty  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  expression,  the  dignity 
and  gentleness  of  his  manner,  his  smile  of  peculiar 


io8  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

sweetness,  all  had  great  charm,  and  made  him  seem 
the  ideal  poet. 

The  distinguished  guest  was  soon  placed  in  the 
easiest  chair  in  the  study,  his  hostess  vainly  endeav 
oring  to  appear  at  ease,  and  to  hide  as  much  as  pos 
sible  her  sense  of  the  high  honor  paid  by  this  visit, 
which  to  her  was  much  the  same  as  it  would  be  to  the 
English  subject  should  the  King,  without  retinue 
or  warning,  depart  from  his  palace  to  visit  a  simple 
gentry  of  his  kingdom.  After  a  half-hour's  friendly 
chat  of  books  and  men,  Mr.  Longfellow  said:  "  May 
I  tell  you  how  I  am  impressed  with  the  atmosphere 
of  home  and  cheer  you  have  given  to  this  little 
room?  Its  crimson  walls,  the  flowers,  the  crowded 
shelves  of  books,  all  tell  their  story  of  the  fortunate, 
the  happy  day,  when  a  new  household  found  its  place 
among  the  innumerable  homes  of  earth."  Then,  turn 
ing  to  his  hostess,  he  said:  "I  should  so  much  like 
if  you  would  show  me  all  of  this  small  house.  Mr. 
Dickens  told  me  of  its  charm."  With  shy  pride  we 
took  our  guest  from  room  to  room,  and  when  we 
came  to  our  bedroom  with  its  blue  chintz  hangings 
Mr.  Longfellow  said  that  all  the  bluebirds  printed 
on  them  should  know  it  was  a  poet's  home  and  sing 
to  him  their  sweetest  melodies  both  day  and  night. 

When  the  short  tour  of  the  house  was  over,  linger 
ing  a  moment  at  the  dining-room  door  Mr.  Long 
fellow  said:  "Ah,  Mr.  Aldrich,  it  will  not  always  be 


LONGFELLOW  IN  HIS  STUDY 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  109 

the  same  round  table  for  two.  By  and  by  it  will 
extend  itself,  and  about  it  will  cluster  little  faces, 
royal  guests,  drumming  on  the  table  with  their 
spoons.  And  then,  as  the  years  go  by,  one  by  one  they 
will  take  flight  to  build  nests  of  their  own.  The  round 
table  will  again  recede  until  it  is  set  for  two  and  you 
and  Mrs.  Aldrich  will  be  alone.  This  is  the  story  of 
life,  the  pathetic  poem  of  the  fireside.  Make  an  idyl  of 
it ;  I  give  the  idea  to  you."  Mr.  Aldrich  did  not  use  the 
motif,  and  Mr.  Longfellow  himself  later  wrote  the 
poem  "The  Hanging  of  the  Crane,"  for  which  poem 
Mr.  Bonner  paid  him  three  thousand  dollars  for  the 
right  to  publish  it  in  his  paper.  Thus  the  little  visit, 
which  Mr.  Longfellow  in  his  kindness  made,  brought 
for  him  a  dual  reward  —  money  and  fame,  and  a 
larger  asset,  the  pleasure  and  matronly  pride  it  gave 
its  young  recipient. 

This  visit  was  soon  followed  by  an  invitation  to 
dine  at  Craigie  House.  As  our  carriage  stopped  at  the 
gate  our  host  appeared  at  the  open  door,  and  coming 
down  the  long  walk  with  courtly  grace  gave  his  arm 
to  his  young  guest.  The  picture  of  the  scene  is  in 
delible:  the  tender  grace  of  the  dying  day;  the  lilacs 
just  in  bloom;  the  green  of  the  grass;  and  a  poet, 
bareheaded,  with  whitening  hair,  standing  in  the 
twilight. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"The  Summer  comes  and  the  Summer  goes; 
Wild-flowers  are  fringing  the  dusty  lanes, 
The  swallows  go  darting  through  fragrant  rains, 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden  —  it  snows. 

"  Dear  Heart,  our  lives  so  happily  flow, 
So  lightly  we  heed  the  flying  hours, 
We  only  know  Winter  is  gone  —  by  the  flowers. 
We  only  know  Winter  is  come  —  by  the  snow." 

FOR  the  first  summers  the  fairyland  of  the  idyllic 
days  of  the  honeymoon  of  marriage  was  the 
"Old  Town  by  the  Sea,"  where  Mr.  Aldrich  was  born 
and  where  his  grandfather  and  mother  still  lived  in 
the  "Nutter  House,"  which  was  then,  and  is  still, 
a  fine  example  of  the  simple,  dignified  home  of  a  quiet 
New  England  town  almost  a  century  ago. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1869  that  Mr.  Aldrich 
wrote  the  story  that  was  told  to  him  there  —  told  to 
him  by  the  "Nutter  House"  itself.  The  happy  days 
of  his  boyhood  spoke  to  him  from  every  timber  of  that 
old  home.  There  was  not  an  inch  in  the  house  or  a 
spot  in  the  garden  that  did  not  have  its  story  to  tell. 
"  It  all  came  to  me  out  of  the  past,  the  light  and  life 
of  the  Nutter  House  when  I  was  a  boy  at  River- 
mouth." 

The  house  stands  on  a  narrow  street  at  the  foot  of 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  in 

which  is  the  Piscataqua  River.  But  the  "Nutter 
House"  and  its  surroundings  are  described  so  de 
lightfully  in  "The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy"  that  the 
next  few  paragraphs  shall  be  given  to  the  reader  by 
Tom  Bailey  himself: 

"  Few  ships  come  to  Rivermouth  now.  Commerce 
drifted  into  other  ports.  The  phantom  fleet  sailed  off 
one  day  and  never  came  back  again.  The  crazy  old 
warehouses  are  empty;  and  barnacles  and  eel-grass 
cling  to  the  piles  of  the  crumbling  wharves,  where  the 
sunshine  lies  lovingly,  bringing  out  the  faint  spicy 
odor  that  haunts  the  place  —  the  ghost  of  the  old 
dead  West  India  trade. 

"The  house  abutted  directly  on  the  street;  the 
granite  doorstep  was  almost  flush  with  the  side 
walk,  and  the  huge  old-fashioned  brass  knocker  ex 
tended  itself  in  a  kind  of  grim  appeal  to  everybody. 
It  seemed  to  possess  strange  fascinations  for  all  sea 
faring  folk;  and  when  there  was  a  man-of-war  in 
port,  the  rat-tat  of  that  knocker  would  frequently 
startle  the  quiet  neighborhood  long  after  midnight. 

"Imagine  a  low-studded  structure,  with  a  wide 
hall  running  through  the  middle.  At  your  right 
hand,  as  you  enter,  stands  a  tall  mahogany  clock, 
looking  like  an  Egyptian  mummy  set  up  on  end. 
On  each  side  of  the  hall  are  doors  opening  into  rooms 
wainscoted,  with  wood  carvings  about  the  mantel 
pieces  and  cornices. 


ii2  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

"There  are  neither  grates  nor  stoves  in  the  quaint 
chambers,  but  splendid  open  chimney-places,  with 
room  enough  for  the  corpulent  back-log  to  turn  over 
comfortably  on  the  polished  andirons.  The  door  on 
the  left  as  one  enters  is  the  best  room.  The  walls 
are  covered  with  pictured  paper,  representing  land 
scapes  and  sea- views  —  for  example,  this  enlivening 
figure  is  repeated  all  over  the  room :  A  group  of  Eng 
lish  peasants  wearing  Italian  hats  are  dancing  on  a 
lawn  that  abruptly  resolves  itself  into  a  sea-beach, 
upon  which  stands  a  flabby  fisherman  (nationality 
unknown),  quietly  hauling  in  what  appears  to  be 
a  small  whale,  and  totally  regardless  of  the  dread 
ful  naval  combat  going  on  just  beyond  the  end  of 
his  fishing-rod.  On  the  other  side  of  the  ships  is  the 
mainland  again,  with  the  same  peasants  dancing. 

"  It  is  Sunday  morning.  I  should  premise  by  say 
ing  that  the  deep  gloom  which  settled  over  every 
thing  set  in  like  a  heavy  fog  early  on  Saturday  eve 
ning. 

"Our  parlor  is  by  no  means  thrown  open  every 
day.  It  is  open  this  June  morning,  and  is  pervaded 
by  a  strong  smell  of  centre-table.  The  furniture  of 
the  room,  and  the  little  China  ornaments  on  the 
mantelpiece,  have  a  constrained,  unfamiliar  look. 
My  grandfather  sits  in  a  mahogany  chair,  reading 
a  large  Bible  covered  with  green  baize.  Miss  Abigail 
occupies  one  end  of  the  sofa,  and  has  her  hands 


HALL  AND  STAIRWAY  IN  THE  "NUTTER  HOUSE" 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  113 

crossed  stiffly  in  her  lap.  I  sit  in  the  corner,  crushed. 
Robinson  Crusoe  and  Gil  Bias  are  in  close  confine 
ment.  Baron  Trenck,  who  managed  to  escape  from 
the  fortress  of  Glatz,  can't  for  the  life  of  him  get  out 
of  our  sitting-room  closet. 

"The  door  at  the  right  of  the  hall  leads  into  the 
sitting-room.  It  was  in  this  room  where  my  grand 
father  sat  in  his  armchair  the  greater  part  of  the 
evening,  reading  the  Rivermouth  'Barnacle,'  the 
local  newspaper.  There  was  no  gas  in  those  days, 
and  the  Captain  read  by  the  aid  of  a  small  block- 
tin  lamp  which  he  held  in  one  hand.  I  observed  that 
he  had  a  habit  of  dropping  off  into  a  doze  every 
three  or  four  minutes.  Two  or  three  times,  to  my 
vast  amusement,  he  scorched  the  edges  of  the  news 
paper  with  the  wick  of  the  lamp ;  and  at  about  half- 
past  eight  o'clock  I  had  the  satisfaction  —  I  am 
sorry  to  confess  it  was  a  satisfaction  —  of  seeing 
the  Rivermouth  'Barnacle'  in  flames. 

"My  grandfather  leisurely  extinguished  the  fire 
with  his  hands,  and  Miss  Abigail,  who  sat  near  a 
low  table,  knitting  by  the  light  of  an  astral  lamp, 
did  not  even  look  up.  She  was  quite  used  to  this 
catastrophe. 

"The  monotonous  'click  click'  of  Miss  Abigail's 
needles  made  me  nervous  after  a  while,  and  finally 
drove  me  out  of  the  sitting-room  into  the  kitchen, 
where  Kitty  caused  me  to  laugh  by  saying  Miss 


H4  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Abigail  thought  that  what  I  needed  was  '  a  good  dose 
of  hot-drops.' 

"Kitty  Collins,  or  Mrs.  Catherine,  as  she  pre 
ferred  to  be  called,  was  descended  in  a  direct  line 
from  an  extensive  family  of  kings  who  formerly 
ruled  over  Ireland.  In  consequence  of  various  calam 
ities,  among  which  the  failure  of  the  potato  crop 
may  be  mentioned,  Miss  Kitty  Collins,  in  company 
with  several  hundred  of  her  countrymen  and  coun 
trywomen  —  also  descended  from  kings  —  came  over 
to  America  in  an  emigrant  ship,  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  something. 

"I  don't  know  what  freak  of  fortune  caused  the 
royal  exile  to  turn  up  at  Rivermouth;  but  turn  up 
she  did,  a  few  months  after  arriving  in  this  country, 
and  was  hired  by  my  grandmother  to  do  'general 
housework'  for  the  modest  sum  of  four  shillings  and 
sixpence  a  week.  In  time  she  grew  to  be  regarded 
less  as  a  servant  than  as  a  friend  in  the  home  circle, 
sharing  its  joys  and  sorrows  —  a  faithful  nurse,  a 
willing  slave,  a  happy  spirit." 

Of  the  dining-room  Master  Bailey  had  little  to 
say,  excepting  the  pen  picture  of  Sunday  morning 
in  the  "Nutter  House": 

"Sunday  morning. ...  At  seven  o'clock  my  grand 
father  comes  smilelessly  downstairs.  He  is  dressed 
in  black,  and  looks  as  if  he  had  lost  all  his  friends 
during  the  night.  Miss  Abigail,  also  in  black,  looks 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  115 

as  if  she  were  prepared  to  bury  them,  and  not  indis 
posed  to  enjoy  the  ceremony.  Even  Kitty  Collins 
has  caught  the  contagious  gloom,  as  I  perceive 
when  she  brings  in  the  coffee-urn  —  a  solemn  and 
sculpturesque  urn  at  any  time,  but  monumental 
now  —  and  sets  it  down  in  front  of  Miss  Abigail. 
Miss  Abigail  gazes  at  the  urn  as  if  it  held  the  ashes 
of  her  ancestors,  instead  of  a  generous  quantity  of 
fine  old  Java  coffee." 

In  the  "Life  of  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,"  writ 
ing  of  the  small  hall  bedroom  in  the  "Nutter  House," 
his  biographer  says: 

"Even  in  those  days  he  was  a  reader,  a  little 
dreamer,  and  moved  in  a  world  peopled  with  the  folk 
of  the  imagination.  The  passage  in  'The  Story  of 
a  Bad  Boy'  describing  his  little  hall-room  in  the 
'Nutter  House,'  the  books  he  found  there  and  the 
use  he  made  of  them,  is  of  the  first  biographic  im 
portance. 

' '  I  had  never  before  had  a  chamber  all  to  myself, 
and  this  one,  about  twice  the  size  of  our  stateroom 
on  board  the  Typhoon,  was  a  marvel  of  neatness 
and  comfort.  Pretty  chintz  curtains  hung  at  the 
window,  and  a  patch  quilt  of  more  colors  than  were 
in  Joseph's  coat  covered  the  little  bed.  The  pattern 
of  the  wall-paper  left  nothing  to  be  desired  in  that 
line.  On  a  gray  background  were  small  bunches  of 
leaves,  unlike  any  that  ever  grew  in  this  world ;  and 


u6  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

on  every  other  bunch  perched  a  yellowbird,  pitted 
with  crimson  spots,  as  if  it  had  just  recovered  from 
a  severe  attack  of  the  smallpox.  That  no  such  bird 
ever  existed  did  not  detract  from  my  admiration  of 
each  one.  There  were  two  hundred  and  sixty-eight 
of  these  birds  in  all,  not  counting  those  split  in  two 
where  the  paper  was  badly  joined.  I  counted  them 
once  when  1  was  laid  up  with  a  fine  black  eye,  and, 
falling  asleep,  I  immediately  dreamed  that  the 
whole  flock  suddenly  took  wing  and  flew  out  of  the 
window.  From  that  time  I  was  never  able  to  regard 
them  as  merely  inanimate  objects. 

"'  A  washstand  in  the  corner,  a  chest  of  mahogany 
drawers,  a  looking-glass  in  a  filigreed  frame,  and  a. 
high-backed  chair  studded  with  brass  nails  like  a 
coffin,  constituted  the  furniture.  Over  the  head  of 
the  bed  were  two  oak  shelves,  holding  perhaps  a 
dozen  books  —  among  which  were  "Theodore;  or, 
The  Peruvians";  "Robinson  Crusoe";  an  odd  vol 
ume  of  "Tristram  Shandy";  Baxter's  "Saints' 
Rest,"  and  a  fine  English  edition  of  the  "Arabian 
Nights,"  with  six  hundred  woodcuts  by  Harvey. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  hour  when  I  first  over 
hauled  these  books?  I  do  not  allude  especially  to 
Baxter's  "Saints'  Rest,"  which  is  far  from  being  a 
lively  work  for  the  young,  but  to  the  "Arabian 
Nights,"  and  particularly  "Robinson  Crusoe."  The 
thrill  that  ran  into  my  fingers'  ends  then  has  not 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  117 

run  out  yet.  Many  a  time  did  I  steal  up  to  this  nest 
of  a  room,  and,  taking  the  dog's-eared  volume  from 
its  shelf,  glide  off  into  an  enchanted  realm,  where 
there  were  no  lessons  to  get,  and  no  boys  to  smash 
my  kite. 

"  In  a  lidless  trunk  in  the  garret  I  subsequently 
unearthed  another  motley  collection  of  novels  and 
romances,  embracing  the  "Adventures  of  Baron 
Trenck,"  "Jack  Sheppard,"  "Don  Quixote,"  "Gil 
Bias,"  and  "  Charlotte  Temple  "  — all  of  which  I  fed 
upon  like  a  bookworm.  I  never  come  across  a  copy 
of  any  of  those  works  without  feeling  a  certain  ten 
derness  for  the  yellow-haired  little  rascal  who  used 
to  lean  above  the  magic  pages  hour  after  hour,  re 
ligiously  believing  every  word  he  read,  and  no  more 
doubting  the  reality  of  Sinbad  the  Sailor  or  the 
Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Countenance  than  he  did 
the  existence  of  his  own  grandfather.' ' 

In  the  story  of  the  "Nutter  House"  Mr.  Aldrich 
does  not  speak  of  the  garden;  but  he  has  often  told 
me  of  the  inexhaustible  territory  of  pleasure  and 
play  it  was;  at  times  swarming  with  Indians  in  am 
bush  behind  every  bush  and  tree;  then,  presto, 
change !  —  it  was  transformed  into  an  English  forest, 
through  which  rode  Robin  Hood  and  his  men;  again 
the  pirates  had  it  —  Captain  Kidd  burying  his 
treasure  in  the  moonlight;  Jeanne  d'Arc  proudly 
riding  on  her  white  steed  with  banners  flying;  and 


n8  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

here,  many  times,  was  solemnized  the  marriage  of 
Pocahontas  and  Captain  John  Smith. 

"A  happy  childhood,  ringed  with  fortunate  stars! 
What  dreams  were  his  in  this  enchanted  sphere, 
What  intuitions  of  high  destiny! 
The  honey-bees  of  Hybla  touched  his  lips 
In  that  new  world  garden  unawares." 

Of  this  summer  Mr.  Greenslet  wrote  in  his  bi 
ography:  "The  summer  of  1868  was  spent  as  usual 
at  Portsmouth,  and  throughout  it  Aldrich  was  giving 
all  his  spare  moments  to  the  writing  of  'The  Story 
of  a  Bad  Boy.'  He  returned  to  Pinckney  Street 
about  the  middle  of  September,  and  there  on  the 
evening  of  the  sixteenth  wrote  the  last  words  of  the 
chronicle  of  Tom  Bailey.  On  the  seventeenth  oc 
curred  one  of  the  great  happinesses  of  his  life.  A 
month  before  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Howells  a 
note,  saying,  '  I  have  a  fine  boy ' ;  on  the  eighteenth 
of  September  Aldrich  replied : 

" '  MY  DEAR  HOWELLS,  —  I  have  TWO  fine  boys, 

born  yesterday  morning!  Everything  seems  to  be 

well  with  my  wife  and  with  the  little  fellows,  God 

bless  the  three  of  them !  and  I  am  exceedingly  happy. 

1  Your  friend, 

"'T.  B.  ALDRICH.'" 

"Two  things  there  are  with  Memory  will  abide  — 
Whatever  else  befall  —  while  life  flows  by: 
That  soft  cold  hand-touch  at  the  altar  side; 
The  thrill  that  shook  you  at  your  child's  first  cry." 


CHAPTER  XII 

AFTER  Mr.  Aldrich's  marriage  several  happy 
summers  had  been  passed  in  Portsmouth  before 
his  Grandfather  Bailey,  or  "Grandfather  Nutter" 
as  he  was  named  in  "The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy," 
died.  Never  again  would  the  tall  figure  in  black 
satin  waistcoat  and  high  satin  stock,  the  kindly  face, 
the  beneficent  smile,  be  seen  in  the  familiar  places. 
The  life  and  cheer  of  the  "Nutter  House"  had  fled. 
For  the  next  few  years  the  summer  home  was  in 
a  fishing  village,  in  a  long,  low  house  —  "  Rose  Cot 
tage,"  where  the  roses  and  rose-bugs  ran  riot  —  the 
sea  and  the  mermaids  the  nearest  neighbors.  There 
was  a  tiny  garden  and  a  small  green  lawn,  where 
almost  every  afternoon  strawberries,  and,  in  fact  all 
berries  in  their  season,  would  bloom  and  ripen  with 
marvellous  rapidity.  Then  if  the  mermaids  were 
sitting  on  their  rocks,  or  tuning  their  lyres,  they 
would  see  two  lithe  jocund  sprites  going  berrying. 
The  shouts  of  joy  with  which  each  berry  hidden  in 
its  green  leaves  was  welcomed  when  found  echo  in 
my  ears.  Many  were  the  schemes  devised  to  lure  the 
guileless  reapers  indoors  while  the  boxes  of  fruit 
were  emptied  in  the  thick-growing  grass.  Ah,  happy 
days!  Birds  singing  —  youth,  happiness,  love. 


120  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

How  well  remembered  is  the  hour  and  day  of  this 
first  summer  in  "Rose  Cottage,"  when  Mr.  Aldrich, 
laden  with  books  and  manuscripts,  returned  from 
the  city  of  his  editorial  cares,  and  said,  with  per 
plexed  face  and  whimsical  manner:  "We  are,  nolens 
volens,  to  have  a  visitor,  'O'ermaster  it  as  you  may.' 
This  morning  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  came  to 
the  office,  and  without  preamble  said,  '  I  should  like 
to  make  you  and  Mrs.  Aldrich  a  little  visit;  the  per 
sonality  of  your  wife  strongly  attracts  me.' "  Then 
followed  the  startling  intelligence  that  the  distin 
guished  guest  would  arrive  early  the  next  day. 

For  the  chatelaine  of  the  humble  chateau  there 
was  little  sleep  that  night.  What  would  befall  her  in 
the  next  few  hours  when  Mr.  Aldrich  was  in  town, 
and  she  alone  with  the  distinguished  guest  —  a 
guest  who  at  the  tender  age  of  twelve  years  had 
chosen  for  her  theme,  "Can  the  Immortality  of  the 
Soul  be  proved  by  the  Light  of  Nature?"  Unfor 
tunately,  at  "Rose  Cottage"  there  were  no  books 
for  research  that  would  treat  of  such  grave  subjects, 
and  even  memory  itself  that  night  proved  treacher 
ous,  refusing  to  recall  "Questions  and  Answers," 
hidden  in  the  blue-covered  catechism  of  her  girlhood. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Aldrich  was  adamant  to 
the  prayer  that  he  would  forego  all  editorial  duties 
for  that  day,  but  giving  his  promise  to  return  from 
the  city  as  early  as  possible,  and  to  bring  with  him 


THE  "JOCUND  SPRITES" 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  121 

a  man  rich  in  the  lore  of  theology  and  kindred  mat 
ters,  he  hurried  to  the  train,  leaving  his  laughing 
advice,  if  there  seemed  danger  of  being  swept  be 
yond  the  depths,  to  call  to  the  rescue  the  jocund 
sprites,  with  their  trumpets  and  drums,  their  rat 
tling  wagons,  their  squeaking  carts  —  the  arma 
ment  with  which  they  so  frequently  had  silenced 
conversation  in  the  small  house. 

Mrs.  Stowe  was  among  the  notable  women  we 
had  met  in  our  first  days  in  Boston.  From  that  time 
she  held  a  large  place  in  our  interest,  although  we 
seldom  saw  her.  The  description  she  had  written  of 
herself  to  Mrs.  Follen  in  London,  fifteen  years  be 
fore,  would  apply  equally  well  to  her  personality  the 
first  time  we  saw  her.  "  I  am  a  little  bit  of  a  woman, 
somewhat  more  than  forty,  about  as  thin  and  dry 
as  a  pinch  of  snuff;  never  very  much  to  look  at  in 
my  best  days,  and  looking  like  a  used-up  article 
now."  The  story  which  had  proved  such  an  im 
portant  factor  in  the  abolition  of  slavery  was  pub 
lished  in  the  same  year  as  her  letter  to  Mrs.  Follen. 
In  the  same  letter  she  wrote  of  it:  "Having  been 
poor  all  my  life,  and  expecting  to  be  poor  the  rest  of 
it,  the  idea  of  making  money  by  a  book  which  I 
wrote  because  I  could  not  help  it  never  occurred  to 
me." 

On  the  day  of  publication  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
three  thousand  copies  of  the  book  were  sold,  and 


122  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

within  a  year,  one  hundred  and  twenty  editions,  or 
over  three  hundred  thousand  copies,  of  the  book 
were  sold  in  this  country.  Eight  power  presses  run 
ning  day  and  night  were  barely  able  to  keep  pace 
with  the  demand  for  it. 

In  the  life  of  Mrs.  Stowe,  written  by  her  son,  he 
says:  "Almost  in  a  day  the  poor  professor's  wife  had 
become  the  most  talked-of  woman  in  the  world ;  her 
influence  for  good  was  spreading  to  its  remotest 
corners,  and  henceforth  she  was  to  be  a  public  char 
acter,  whose  every  movement  would  be  watched  with 
interest,  and  whose  every  word  would  be  quoted." 

At  dinner  the  night  before  the  memorable  visit 
Mr.  Aldrich  had  suggested  that  as  the  next  day 
would  probably  be  warm,  a  claret  cup,  served  with 
its  clinking  ice,  its  ruby  color,  and  its  bit  of  mint, 
would  be  a  refreshment  for  body  and  soul.  And  with 
the  suggestion  the  flattering  remark  that  of  all  the 
accomplishments  in  the  menage  of  the  Mistress  of 
the  Manor  none  surpassed  her  brewing.  Then,  lift 
ing  his  glass,  with  a  gay  little  nod  he  hummed  the 
words  of  Sir  Harry's  toast: 

"And  here's  to  the  housewife  that's  thrifty. 
Let  the  toast  pass; 
Drink  to  the  lass; 
I'll  warrant  she'll  prove  an  excuse  for  the  glass." 

It  was  with  no  joyous  heart,  however,  that  after 
Mr.  Aldrich's  departure  the  next  morning,  the  Mis- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  123 

tress  of  the  Manor  began  the  brewing  of  her  cup; 
her  troubled  thought  making  discord  as  to  how 
much  measure  of  this  and  that  would  bring  to  har 
mony  the  ingredients  of  her  ruby  mixture.  Thought 
refused  to  concentrate  on  the  work  of  her  hands;  it 
wandered  to  other  matters.  "What  does  a  personal 
ity  that  attracts  consist  of? "  "Can  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul  be  proved  by  the  Light  of  Nature?" 
Was  Mr.  Aldrich  half  in  earnest  when  he  advised 
her  before  meeting  this  visitor  to  familiarize  her 
mind  with  an  exhaustive  study  of  all  the  concord 
ances  of  Scripture  she  could  borrow  or  find  in  order 
to  cope  with  an  intellect  that  had,  at  the  tender  age 
of  twelve,  chosen  this  theme  for  her  composition? 

The  morning  was  half  over  before  a  carriage 
stopped  at  the  door,  and  a  reluctant  hostess  went 
forward  to  greet  her  distinguished  guest.  What  was 
a  personality  that  attracts?  Whatever  it  was  it  cer 
tainly  was  not  an  unconscious  personality,  but  a 
very  conscious  one,  that  waited  at  the  door.  The 
day  was  excessively  warm,  the  train  from  the  city 
overcrowded,  making  Mrs.  Stowe  look  worried  and 
frail,  like  a  last  rose  of  summer.  With  the  first  look 
at  the  wilted  flower,  personality  fled,  and  there  was 
but  one  thought:  what  can  be  done  for  this  guest's 
comfort?  She  was  brought  into  the  house,  placed  in 
the  easiest  chair,  a  fan  put  in  her  hand,  her  bonnet 
taken  off.  With  her  sigh  of  relief  and  gratitude  for 


i24  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

these  ministrations  came  the  request  for  something 
to  drink  that  would  quench  her  inordinate  thirst. 
Almost  before  Mrs.  Stowe  had  finished  speaking,  to 
her  young  hostess  came  the  remembrance  of  the 
ruby  cup  cooling  in  the  ice  chest,  and  with  the  re 
membrance  a  feeling  of  deep  thankfulness  that  she 
had  something  so  refreshing  to  offer.  A  little  tray  on 
which  was  a  plate  holding  a  biscuit  and  a  glass 
pitcher  filled  with  the  delectable  mixture  was  quickly 
brought  and  placed  on  a  stand  by  Mrs.  Stowe's 
chair,  and  a  hostess  who  had  forgotten  "person 
ality"  and  embarrassment  was  leaning  over  it, 
laughingly  saying: 

"And  let  me  the  canakin  clink,  clink; 
And  let  me  the  canakin  clink. 
A  soldier's  a  man; 
O,  man's  life 's  but  a  span; 
Why,  then,  let  a  soldier  drink." 

The  soldier  drank,  and  very  shortly  afterwards 
complained  of  the  unsettled  character  of  the  room, 
which  seemed  to  the  visitor  to  be  stationary  at  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  And  the  sea  turn  — 
everything  is  in  a  blue  mist  —  did  we  often  have 
such  sudden  fogs?  She  would  lie  down  if  the  sofa  had 
not  such  a  momentum ;  to  her  eye  it  was  misbehav 
ing  as  badly  as  her  berth  at  sea. 

It  was  with  penitent  and  contrite  heart  that  the 
hapless  sinner,  whose  want  of  concentration  of  her 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  125 

errant  thoughts  in  the  brewing  of  the  cup  had 
brought  about  this  dire  mischance,  assisted  her 
guest ;  and  fervent  was  her  prayer  that  the  recum 
bent  position  would  prove  recuperative  and  restore 
speedily  the  equilibrium  that  through  her  fault  had 
gone  so  far  astray. 

In  the  days  of  the  sixties  women  still  wore  hoops 
or  reeds  in  their  skirts,  and  in  lying  on  the  sofa  Mrs. 
Stowe's  skirts,  like  Hamlet's  words,  "flew  up,"  re 
vealing  very  slender  ankles  and  feet  encased  in  pru 
nella  boots ;  the  elastic  V  at  the  sides  no  longer  elas 
tic,  but  worn  and  loose.  The  stockings  were  white, 
and  the  flowery  ribbon  of  the  garter  knots  was  un 
abashed  by  the  sunlight. 

What  was  to  be  done?  The  hour  of  Mr.  Aldrich's 
return  was  imminent.  The  perturbed  and  anxious 
sinner  sat  in  watchful  silence.  On  a  distant  chair  lay 
a  gossamer  scarf  which  would  drape  the  unconscious 
form.  But  if  in  the  getting  of  it  she  wake  the  sleeper? 
Which  was  the  kindest  thing  —  to  wait  for  "Na 
ture's  sweet  restorer"  or  to  drape  the  scarf  and  run 
the  risk  of  waking  her  poor  victim?  If  Mr.  Aldrich 
was  only  coming  alone,  she  could  bar  the  door  and 
banish  him.  But  in  this  long,  low  house  there  was 
but  one  living-room,  and  what  could  be  done  with 
the  stranger  guest  who  was  coming  with  him?  For 
this  reason  the  venture  must  be  made.  With  stealthy 
steps  the  goal  was  won,  and  light  as  a  butterfly's 


126  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

wing  the  gossamer  scarf  slowly  descended,  only  to 
rise  again  with  accelerated  motion,  for  Mrs.  Stowe 
at  the  first  touch  sat  straight  upright,  and  with  dim, 
reproachful  eyes  asked:  "Why  did  you  do  it?  I  am 
weak,  weary  and  warm  as  I  am  —  let  me  sleep." 
There  was  given  a  gentle  hint  that  there  was  dra 
pery  to  be  rearranged,  but  the  negative  was  firm,  and 
the  answer  decisive:  "I  won't  be  any  properer  than 
I  have  a  mind  to  be.  Let  me  sleep." 

Fortunately,  Mr.  Aldrich  was  detained  in  town 
and  did  not  arrive  at  "Rose  Cottage"  until  a  later 
hour  than  he  had  expected.  Before  he  came  Mrs. 
Stowe  had  had  a  strong  cup  of  coffee,  her  skirts  had 
resumed  their  normal  shape,  and  she  was  herself 
again.  At  dinner  the  hapless  sinner  had  the  poignant 
pain  of  hearing  the  unconscious  lamb  telling  the 
guest  of  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the  motion  of  the 
train  producing  a  strange  dizziness  which  she  had 
never  experienced  before.  Until  the  writing  of  this 
page  never  has  there  been  a  confession  made  of  this 
episode;  in  all  the  intervening  years  it  has  been  as  a 
fountain  sealed. 

When  the  brief  visit  was  over  and  the  adieus  being 
made,  Mrs.  Stowe  said  at  parting:  "I  am  always 
like  a  spider  that  is  puzzled  where  to  attach  his 
threads  for  a  web.  You  and  Mrs.  Aldrich  unknow 
ingly  gave  me  a  motif  for  a  story."  Then  turning  to 
Mr.  Aldrich,  she  said:  "There  is  so  much  positive 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  127 

character  in  this  little  lady  that  I  could  not  resist 
the  desire  to  put  her  in  a  book.  But  I  had  come  to 
the  end  of  the  bridge,  and  there  was  need  to  meet 
my  heroine  again."  Then,  with  the  good-bye  kiss  to 
her  hostess,  added,  "She  is  not  you,  just  you,  but  a 
type  of  you." 

It  was  a  surprised  and  disturbed  heroine  that 
closed  the  door  on  the  departing  guest,  and  asked  of 
the  jocund  sprites,  whose  hands  she  held,  if  they 
thought  it  kind  to  put  their  mother  in  a  story-book. 
And  dear  was  their  answer:  "I  love  you,  mamma, 
my  mamma,  my  dear  little  mamma!"  And  beyond 
that  she  never  knew. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  this  j^ear  that  Mr.  Al- 
drich  first  met  Mr.  Clemens,  although  a  year  previ 
ous  their  epistolary  acquaintance  began,  introduced 
by  a  very  savage  letter  which  Mark  Twain  had 
written  to  Mr.  Aldrich,  not  as  a  comrade  and  fellow 
worker,  but  to  the  unscrupulous  and  unreliable  edi 
tor  of  "Every  Saturday."  Mr.  Aldrich  had  copied 
from  another  periodical  some  rhymes  credited  to 
Mark  Twain  about  a  euchre  game  that  was  turned 
into  poker,  and  evidently  had  commented  upon 
them  unfavorably,  as  being  an  imitation  of  Bret 
Harte's  "Heathen  Chinee."  Mr.  Clemens  wrote  to 
say  the  lines  were  not  his,  and  he  wished  to  have 
the  misstatement  corrected,  which  Mr.  Aldrich,  in 
a  very  complimentary  paragraph,  immediately  did. 


128  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

The  second  letter  to  Mr.  Aldrich  begins: 
"DEAR  MR.  ALDRICH,  — 

"I  hear  a  good  deal  about  doing  things  on  the 
'spur  of  the  moment*  —  I  invariably  regret  things  I 
do  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  That  disclaimer  of 
mine  was  a  case  in  point.  I  am  ashamed  every  time 
I  think  of  my  bursting  out  before  an  unconcerned 
public  with  that  bombastic  pow-wow  about  burning 
publishers'  letters  and  all  that  sort  of  imbecility, 
and  about  my  not  being  an  imitator,  etc.  Who 
would  find  out  that  I  am  a  natural  fool  if  I  kept  al 
ways  cool  and  never  let  nature  come  to  the  surface? 
Nobody." 

The  last  letter  in  this  series  was  from  Mr.  Aldrich, 
ending  in  this  wise:  "When  you  come  to  Boston,  if 
you  do  not  make  your  presence  manifest  to  me,  I  '11 
put  an  item  in  'Every  Saturday,'  to  the  effect  that 
although  you  are  generally  known  as  '  Mark  Twain,' 
your  favorite  nom  de  plume  is  '  Barry  Gray.'  I  flatter 
myself  that  will  bring  you." 

It  was  in  the  early  dark  of  a  winter's  night  a  year 
after  this  belligerent  correspondence  that  Mr.  Al 
drich  came  home  bringing  with  him  a  most  unusual 
guest,  clothed  in  a  coat  of  sealskin,  the  fur  worn  out 
ward  ;  a  sealskin  cap  well  down  over  his  ears ;  the  cap 
half  revealing  and  half  concealing  the  mass  of  red 
dish  hair  underneath;  the  heavy  mustache  having 
the  same  red  tint.  The  trousers  came  well  below  the 


SAMUEL  L.  CLEMENS 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  129 

coat,  and  were  of  a  yellowish-brown  color;  stockings 
of  the  same  tawny  hue,  which  the  low  black  shoe 
emphasized.  May  and  December  intermixed,  pro 
ducing  strange  confusion  in  one's  preconceived 
ideas.  Was  it  the  dress  for  winter,  or  was  it  the  dress 
for  summer?  Seemingly  it  all  depended  on  the  range 
of  vision.  If  one  looked  up,  winter;  if  one  looked 
down,  summer.  But  when  the  wearer  spoke  it  was 
not  difficult  for  the  listener  to  believe  that  he  was 
not  entirely  accountable  for  the  strange  gear.  It  was 
but  too  evident  that  he  had  looked  upon  the  cup 
when  it  was  red,  for  seemingly  it  had  both  cheered 
and  inebriated,  as  the  gentleman  showed  marked 
inability  to  stand  perpendicular,  but  swayed  from 
side  to  side,  and  had  also  difficulty  with  his  speech ; 
he  did  not  stammer  exactly,  but  after  each  word 
he  placed  a  period.  His  sentences  were  whimsical, 
and  host  and  guest  laughed  loudly,  with  and  at  each 
other.  The  hostess  happened  to  be  in  the  hall  as  Mr. 
Aldrich's  key  turned  in  the  lock  and  host  and  guest 
entered .  Obviously  someth  ing  very  amusin  g  was  being 
said,  interrupted  for  the  moment  by  the  words  of 
introduction  "My  wife,"  and  the  gay  laughter  con 
tinued,  dying  down  for  a  minute,  to  start  up  again ; 
no  intimation  whatever  given  as  to  what  name  might 
be  attached  to  this  strange-looking  personage. 

Winter  disappeared   with   the  removal   of   the 
guest's  fur  coat  and  cap,  and  summer,  or  at  least 


130  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

early  springtime,  emerged  in  the  violet  tint  of  the 
carelessly  tied  neck-knot,  and  the  light  gray  of  under 
coat  and  waistcoat;  but  for  the  third  one  in  the 
group  a  cold  and  repellent  frost  had  steadily  set  in, 
stiffening  and  making  rigid  the  face  and  figure  of  an 
inhospitable  hostess,  who  cast  reproachful  glances 
at  the  blameless  householder  who  had  taken  the  un 
authorized  liberty  of  bringing  home  a  guest  to  din 
ner.  At  least  in  this  unjust  wise  the  glances  were  so 
interpreted,  on  account  of  an  incident  of  a  few  eve 
nings  before,  when  Mr.  Aldrich  had  brought  to  his 
fireside  an  unexpected  friend  —  a  friend  who  in  dis 
robing  for  the  night  must  have  been  surprised  to 
discover  many  a  sundry  black-and-blue  spot  on  his 
white  flesh,  which  the  sharp  boot-heels  of  his  hostess 
had  administered,  when  the  host  had  helped  himself 
too  generously  to  a  scanty  dish  of  oysters  or  sweet 
meats,  which  would  have  been  ample  for  two,  but 
was  short  rations  for  three.  The  dinner  of  the  few 
days  before  had  produced  three  surprises  —  the 
guest's  astonishment  at  the  boot-heels;  the  hostess's 
astonishment  at  the  sudden  and  penetrating  glances 
directed  to  her  by  the  otherwise  well-behaved  stran 
ger;  and  the  host's  surprise,  when,  in  the  sanctity  of 
their  bedroom,  the  irate  wife  had  demanded  the 
reason  why  her  gentle  hints  had  not  been  acted  on; 
and  the  mutual  surprise  and  horror  when  it  was  dis 
covered  they  had  never  been  received. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  131 

The  cocoon  of  this  new  strange  visitor  being  cast 
aside,  the  little  party  of  three  adjourned  to  the  li 
brary,  where  Mr.  Aldrich  vainly  sought  to  dispel 
the  frosty  atmosphere  by  the  genial  warmth  of  the 
blazing  fire;  but  in  spite  of  his  efforts  the  gay  laugh 
ter  waned  as  the  influence  of  the  wet  blanket  be 
came  more  perceptible,  as  the  holder  of  it  sat  mute 
and  unresponsive  to  laughter  or  jest;  and  cold  was 
the  negative  that  answered  Mr.  Aldrich's  anxious 
inquiries  if  she  had  a  headache,  or  was  ill. 

When  the  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  the  usual 
dinner  hour,  no  maid  appeared  with  the  announce 
ment  that  dinner  was  served,  nor  was  there  any  an 
swering  notice  or  fellow  sympathy  to  the  eye  that 
looked  to  the  mistress  of  the  feast,  and  then  back 
to  the  clock,  whose  hands  slowly  moved  to  quar 
ter  past  —  half  past  —  quarter  of  —  and  then  the 
strange  guest  arose  and  said  he  thought  he  would  go. 
The  adieus  were  made  and  accepted,  by  one  with 
icy  formality,  which  the  other  member  of  the  fra 
ternity  tried  to  make  atonement  for  by  an  exuber 
ant  cordiality  as  he  escorted  his  guest  to  the  door. 
On  his  return  to  the  library  with  unwonted  stern 
ness  he  asked  why  the  dinner  was  three  quarters  of 
an  hour  late,  and  why  the  guest  had  not  been  asked 
to  stay;  his  answer  was  hysterical  tears,  and  in  his 
bewilderment  he  heard:  "How  could  you  have 
brought  a  man  in  that  condition  to  your  home,  to 


i32  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

sit  at  your  table,  and  to  meet  your  wife?  Why,  he 
was  so  intoxicated  he  could  not  stand  straight;  he 
stammered  in  his  speech  — "  With  these  words  the 
tangled  knot  was  cut.  Quickly  the  answer  came: 
"Why,  dear,  did  you  not  know  who  he  was?  What 
you  thought  wine  was  but  his  mannerisms  and  idio 
syncrasies,  characteristics  of  himself,  and  born  with 
Mark  Twain."  There  was  silence  for  the  moment, 
and  then  louder  grew  the  hysterical  sobs,  muffling 
and  choking  the  voice:  "Mark  Twain!  Was  that 
Mark  Twain!  Oh,  go  after  him,  go  after  him;  bring 
him  back  and  tell  him,  tell  him  —  O,  what  can  you 
tell  him ! "  But  it  was  not  until  years  afterwards  that 
he  was  told. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LOOKING  backward  over  the  halcyon  days  of 
the  next  few  years  are  the  vague  memories  of 
the  coming  of  Bret  Harte  in  his  victorious  journey 
from  the  Pacific  to  the  Atlantic  Coast.  His  poems  and 
stories,  especially  "The  Heathen  Chinee,"  had  made 
of  him  a  celebrity  so  renowned  that  the  newspapers 
heralded  his  progress  from  city  to  city  in  the  manner 
befitting  a  prince  of  royal  lineage. 

Mr.  Harte  was  to  be  the  guest  of  Mr.  Howells  on 
that  first  visit  to  Boston ;  Mr.  Howells  was  then  the 
assistant  editor  of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  Mr. 
James  T.  Fields  being  the  editor-in-chief.  Mr.  How- 
ells's  account  of  this  visit  is  so  interesting,  and 
throws  so  much  light  upon  Bret  Harte's  character, 
that  I  tell  it  as  he  has  told  it  in  his  "Literary 
Friends  and  Acquaintance": 

"When  the  adventurous  young  editor  who  had 
proposed  being  his  host  for  Boston,  while  Harte  was 
still  in  San  Francisco,  and  had  not  yet  begun  his 
princely  progress  eastward,  read  of  the  honors  that 
attended  his  coming  from  point  to  point,  his  courage 
fell,  as  if  he  perhaps  had  committed  himself  in  too 
great  an  enterprise.  Who  was  he,  indeed,  that  he 
should  think  of  making  this  dear  son  of  Memory, 
great  heir  of  Fame,  his  guest,  especially  when  he 


134  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

heard  that  in  Chicago  Harte  failed  of  attending  a 
banquet  of  honor  because  the  givers  of  it  had  not 
sent  a  carriage  to  fetch  him  to  it  as  the  alleged  use 
was  in  San  Francisco?  Whether  true  or  not,  and  it 
was  probably  not  true  in  just  that  form,  it  must  have 
been  this  rumor  which  determined  his  host  to  drive 
into  Boston  for  him  with  the  handsomest  hack  which 
the  livery  of  Cambridge  afforded,  and  not  trust  to 
the  horse  cars  and  the  express  to  get  him  and  his 
baggage  out,  as  he  would  have  done  with  a  less 
portentous  guest.  However  it  was,  he  instantly  lost 
all  fear  when  they  met  at  the  station,  and  Harte 
pressed  forward  with  his  cordial  hand-clasp  as  if  he 
was  not  even  a  fairy  prince,  and  with  that  voice  and 
laugh  which  was  surely  the  most  winning  in  the 
world.  Before  they  came  in  sight  of  the  editor's 
humble  roof  he  had  mocked  himself  to  his  guest 
at  his  trepidation,  and  Harte  with  burlesque  mag 
nanimity  had  consented  to  be  for  that  occasion  only 
something  less  formidable  than  he  had  loomed  afar. 
He  accepted  with  joy  the  theory  of  passing  a  week 
in  the  home  of  virtuous  poverty,  and  the  week 
began  as  delightfully  as  it  went  on.  Cambridge  be 
gan  very  promptly  to  show  him  those  hospitalities 
which  he  could  value,  and  continued  the  fable  of  his 
fairy  princeliness  in  the  curiosity  of  those  humbler 
admirers  who  could  not  hope  to  be  his  hosts  or  fel 
low  guests  at  dinner  or  luncheon. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  135 

"  It  cannot  harm  him  or  any  one  now  to  own  that 
Harte  was  nearly  always  late  for  those  luncheons 
and  dinners  which  he  was  always  going  out  to,  and 
it  needed  the  anxieties  and  energies  of  both  families 
to  get  him  into  his  clothes  and  then  into  the  car 
riage,  when  a  good  deal  of  final  buttoning  must  have 
been  done,  in  order  that  he  might  not  arrive  so  very 
late.  He  was  the  only  one  concerned  who  was  quite 
unconcerned;  his  patience  with  his  delays  was  in 
exhaustible;  he  arrived  smiling,  serenely  jovial,  ra 
diating  a  bland  gaiety  from  his  whole  person,  and 
ready  to  ignore  any  discomfort  he  might  have  occa 
sioned." 

On  Mr.  Harte's  first  day  in  Boston  he  dined  with 
the  Saturday  Club,  where  he  met  among  others 
Louis  Agassiz,  Henry  W.  Longfellow,  James  Russell 
Lowell,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Ralph  Waldo  Emer 
son,  and  Richard  H.  Dana,  Jr. 

After  a  week's  stay  in  Cambridge,  Bret  Harte 
returned  to  New  York,  and  a  few  days  afterwards 
accepted  the  offer  of  James  R.  Osgood  &  Company, 
then  publishers  of  the  "Atlantic,"  to  pay  him  ten 
thousand  dollars  during  the  ensuing  year  for  what 
ever  he  might  write  in  the  twelve  months,  be  it 
much  or  little.  But  in  despite  of  the  certainty  of 
this  income,  Bret  Harte  had  not  been  long  in  the 
East  before  he  began  to  feel  the  pressure  of  money 
difficulties,  from  which  pressure  he,  and  his  father 


136  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

before  him,  was  never  free;  nor  would  he  have  been 
with  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  at  his  command;  for 
notwithstanding  his  Hebrew  blood,  he  was  a  born 
spendthrift. 

"The  fault's  not  mine,  you  understand: 

God  shaped  my  palm  so  I  can  hold 
But  little  water  in  my  hand, 
And  not  much  gold." 

On  a  subsequent  visit  of  Mr.  Harte's  to  Boston, 
I  well  remember,  late  on  a  stormy  December  night 
as  we  were  covering  with  ashes  the  too  bright  blaze 
of  the  cheerful  logs  of  the  living-room  fire,  the 
startling  sound  of  the  front  doorbell,  followed  by 
the  buoyant,  confident  tone  of  Bret  Harte  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  calling:  "Are  you  home,  Aldrich? 
I  have  come  to  make  a  night  of  it."  And  then  the 
melodious  voice  as  he  ascended  the  stairs  two  at  a 
time  chanting,  "Polly,  put  the  kettle  on,  Polly  put 
the  kettle  on,  and  we'll  all  have  tea."  He  had  been 
to  a  dinner  and  reception  given  in  his  honor,  and 
coming  gaily  into  the  room  he  asked  for  the  loan  of 
our  spare  room  for  the  night,  saying  that  the  hotel 
room  was  dreary,  and  that  he  was  in  a  mood  to  be 
happy  and  gay.  We  joyfully  loaned  him  the  room 
and  the  lights  —  the  pajamas  and  the  brushes  — 
and  in  return  he  loaned  us  through  all  the  small 
hours,  until  the  coming  of  the  dawn,  the  aroma  of 
his  host's  choicest  cigars.  The  next  morning,  still  ar- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  137 

rayed  in  his  evening  clothes,  he  went  unembarrassed 
and  airily  hotelwards.  It  may  be  that  our  house  was 
for  him  a  palladium  that  night;  for  a  few  evenings 
afterwards  with  untroubled  charm  he  spoke  to  a 
great  audience  in  Tremont  Temple,  while  a  sheriff 
sat  behind  a  screen  and  waited.  Hurried  calls  were 
sent  to  his  publisher,  who  was  dining  out  and  difficult 
to  find,  so  that  the  lecture  had  to  be  lengthened 
until  the  rescuer  came,  and  the  cue  was  given  that 
the  last  word  could  now  be  safely  spoken;  the  all- 
seeing  eye  had  disappeared,  and  the  chair  behind 
the  screen  was  vacant. 

Another  evening  is  very  vivid  in  my  memory, 
when  Mr.  Harte  came  to  dinner  en  famille,  or,  as 
he  said  a  friend  said  to  him  in  California,  "En 
famille,  with  my  family."  There  was  never  a  more 
delightful  guest  or  fascinating  companion  than  he 
was  on  this  night,  when,  sitting  about  the  round 
table  with  the  walnuts  and  the  wine,  he  told  in  the 
intimate  talk  of  the  boy  who  at  seventeen  had 
decided  after  the  death  of  his  father  to  go  West 
in  search  of  adventure  and  fortune.  How  he  had 
landed  in  San  Francisco  without  profession  or  trade, 
money  or  prospects,  and  the  life  that  had  opened  to 
him  there  in  his  first  week.  He  made  to  our  imagina 
tion  the  picture  so  vivid  that  we  walked  with  him 
along  the  city  front,  seeing  the  dim  lines  of  ware 
houses,  the  unsafe  wharves  on  their  rotten  piles, 


138  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

the  two  or  three  ships  still  standing  where  a  sudden 
storm  had  beached  them  a  year  or  two  before.  The 
warehouses  where  the  trunks  and  boxes  of  the  early 
forty-niners  were  stored  by  the  missing  and  dead 
owners.  We  went  with  him  through  the  Spanish 
quarter,  and  saw  the  Mexican  in  his  crimson  sash  and 
velvet  jacket;  the  women  in  their  lace  mantillas  and 
their  ruffled  skirts  playing  their  guitars  and  danc 
ing  the  chacuca  and  other  dances  of  their  nation. 
The  gambling-saloons  and  the  gaudily  dressed  and 
painted  women  who  presided  over  them.  The  princi 
pal  gambling-houses  were  in  the  heart  of  the  city  and 
were  open  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night;  the  at 
mosphere  hazy  with  the  scent  of  tobacco  smoke  and 
redolent  of  the  fumes  of  brandy.  The  wild  music  and 
the  jingling  of  gold  and  silver  were  almost  the  only 
sounds.  Almost  everybody  played,  and  in  fact  the 
gambling-houses  were  as  clubs  for  business  and  pro 
fessional  men.  People  staked  and  lost  their  last  dol 
lar,  Mr.  Harte  laughingly  said,  with  a  calm  solemnity 
and  a  resignation  that  was  almost  Christian.  Every 
gambling-house,  even  the  poorest  on  Long  Wharf, 
had  its  music,  and  in  its  pause  not  a  sound  could  be 
heard  excepting  the  low  murmur  of  voices  and  the 
chinking  of  the  coins  which  the  players  shuffled  back 
ward  and  forward  in  their  hands. 

Mr.  Harte  said  that  during  the  first  weeks  in  the 
new  and  strange  life  that  had  opened  up  to  the  boy 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  139 

of  seventeen,  he  had  tried  his  luck  at  gold-finding, 
and  shovelled  and  picked  and  worked  with  the  rest 
of  the  comrades  that  worked  at  his  side.  Later  he 
discarded  the  mining  tools  and  was  employed  as  a 
messenger  by  the  Adams  Express  Company;  drift 
ing  from  that  company  into  the  composing-room  of 
the  "  Golden  Era,"  which  at  that  time  was  a  famous 
paper,  and  naturally  he  began  to  contribute  to  its 
pages.  Mr.  Harte  said  he  had  written  "The  Hea 
then  Chinee"  at  a  sitting  and  thrown  it  aside.  Later, 
for  want  of  a  better  thing,  it  was  put  in  print  merely 
to  fill  up  a  space,  and  that  no  surprise  could  be  so 
great  as  his  at  the  success  of  the  verses  when  they 
were  copied  by  almost  every  newspaper  in  the 
United  States. 

Mark  Twain  was  also  a  fellow  worker  on  the 
"Era,"  and  became  known  through  its  columns. 
The  "Golden  Era"  was  said  to  be  the  cradle  and 
the  grave  of  many  a  high  hope  of  budding  genius. 

Boston  possessed,  in  the  winter  of  1871-72,  a  lady 
of  towering  social  ambition,  who,  unhappily  for  her 
self,  was  not  of  the  privileged  order,  and  had  never 
been  able  to  force  the  gates  that  barred  her  from  the 
reigning  aristocracy  of  that  city.  But  if  she  was  lack 
ing  in  grace,  she  was  not  in  courage,  her  resourceful 
spirit  proving  it  when  it  brought  to  her  mind  the  sug 
gestion  that  if  this  Western  Lion  could  be  lured  to 
her  lair,  with  what  confidence  cards  of  invitation 


140  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

could  be  sent  to  the  doors  that  had  hitherto  been 
sealed  to  her  hospitality.  Fortune  favored  her  quest, 
and  the  cards  of  invitation  to  meet  Mr.  Bret  Harte 
on  a  certain  evening,  brought  more  acceptances  than 
regrets,  for  the  young  author  had  received  much 
adulation  in  his  triumphal  progress  from  the  Pa 
cific  to  the  Atlantic,  and  even  the  "London  News" 
had  an  editorial  beginning,  "America  has  a  New 
Star." 

When  the  eventful  night  came,  and  exclusive  Bos 
ton  blue  blood  had  greeted  with  sufficient  hauteur 
the  hostess  who  had  captured  the  Lion,  the  long  and 
showy  drawing-room  was  well  filled  with  represent 
ative  men  and  women,  who  met  perhaps  for  the 
first  time  socially  at  a  house  the  chatelaine  of  which 
was  without  the  stamp  of  Vere  de  Vere  —  that  in 
signia  being  the  sine  qua  non  of  what  was  called  our 
best  society. 

Before  the  evening  was  half  over,  Mrs.  Julia  Ward 
Howe  was  asked  by  Mr.  Harte  if  she  would  not  give 
him  the  privilege  of  hearing  from  her  lips  "The 
Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic."  Mrs.  Howe  had  a 
beautiful  and  highly  trained  voice,  and  it  was  always 
a  pleasure  to  listen  to  it.  After  "The  Battle  Hymn" 
Mrs.  Howe  sang  an  Italian  song  and  ended  with  an 
English  ballad,  full  of  pathos.  At  the  finish  Mrs. 
Howe  slowly  rose  from  the  piano,  and  the  eloquent 
silence  was  broken  by  her  hostess's  voice  at  the 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  141 

extreme  end  of  the  room  saying,  "Oh,  Mrs.  Howe, 
do  now  sing  something  comic" ! ! ! 

Among  the  new  friends  we  were  frequently  meet 
ing,  we  numbered  Mrs.  Howe,  and  many  were  the 
pleasant  missives  sent  to  our  small  house.  "Ye 
Aldriches  come  to-night."  And  sometimes  the  mis 
sives  began,  "Dear  little  flower." 

Mrs.  Howe  was  not  only  a  poet,  but  a  patriot  as 
well.  "The  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic"  was  sung 
during  the  Civil  War  as  often  as  "America,"  or 
"The  Star-Spangled  Banner."  On  the  happy  eve 
ning  when  you  were  bidden  to  her  house  you  were 
sure  of  meeting  a  coterie  of  charming  men  and 
women,  who  sat  at  her  feet  with  rapt  attention  while 
she  talked  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  or  of  Kant's  phi 
losophy.  Then  suddenly  forgetting  the  serious  things 
of  life,  her  buoyant  spirit  would  overflow  with  mis 
chievous  merriment,  as  she  challenged  Mr.  Aldrich 
to  a  battle  of  wits  by  propounding  problems  of 
arrant  nonsense,  as  confusedly  interwoven  and  tan 
gled  as  are  similar  paragraphs  locked  in  the  pages  of 
"Science  and  Health." 

From  this  evening  there  were  few  nights  for  Mr. 
Harte  without  engagements;  his  charming  person 
ality  making  him  a  most  welcome  guest.  Mr.  Harte 
was  at  this  time  in  the  height  of  his  fame,  everybody 
quoting  "The  Heathen  Chinee,"  and  "Truthful 
James."  Harvard,  among  the  many  honors  bestowed 


142  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

on  him,  invited  him  to  deliver  the  annual  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Poem.  Mr.  Harte  accepted  the  invitation, 
but  apparently  did  not  recognize  the  dignity  of  the 
occasion.  He  made  his  appearance  in  gaudy  raiment 
and  wearing  green  gloves.  His  poem  was  as  inap 
propriate  as  his  dress.  Clothes  and  the  man  were 
equally  disappointing  to  Harvard.  The  poet  fully 
realized  the  situation,  and  fled  in  dismay. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LOOKING  backward  through  the  mist  and  dim 
ness  of  the  receding  past,  how  happy  are  the 
memories  of  our  first  visit  to  Hartford !  I  hear  with 
startling  clearness  voices  that  have  long  been  silent; 
through  the  darkling  mist  forms  take  shape;  joyous 
shadows  return  again  to  earth,  move,  speak,  and 
have  their  being. 

The  invitation  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clemens  for  this 
visit  included  Mr.  Howells  and  Mr.  Osgood.  The  little 
party  of  four  who  met  that  bright  day  at  the  station 
were  fortunate  in  possessing  the  best  life  gives  — 
happiness,  health,  freedom  from  care.  As  our  train 
moved  slowly  into  the  station  at  Springfield,  we  saw 
on  the  platform  Mark  Twain  and  Charles  Dudley 
Warner,  waiting  to  join  their  guests,  and  go  with 
them  the  rest  of  the  short  journey.  Mark  Twain  was 
then  in  his  golden  dawn;  he  had  friends  in  crowds; 
he  had  married  the  woman  he  loved,  and  fame  had 
become  a  tangible  asset.  With  the  same  slow  and 
lengthened  utterance  that  had  made  the  old  man  at 
his  lecture  ask,  "Be  them  your  natural  tones  of  elo 
quence?"  —  with  his  waving,  undulating  motion  as 
he  came  towards  us  he  said,  "Well,  I  reckon  I  am  pro 
digiously  glad  to  see  you  all.  I  got  up  this  morning 


i44  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

and  put  on  a  clean  shirt,  and  feel  powerful  fine.  Old 
Warner  there  did  n't  do  it,  and  is  darned  sorry  — 
said  it  was  a  lot  of  fuss  to  get  himself  constructed 
properly  just  to  show  off,  and  that  that  bit  of  a  red 
silk  handkerchief  on  the  starboard  side  of  the  pocket 
of  his  gray  coat  would  make  up  for  it;  and  I  allow 
it  has  done  it." 

On  the  arrival  at  Hartford  we  were  met  by  the 
same  carriage  and  coachman  that  Mr.  Clemens,  after 
he  had  entered  the  enchanted  land,  described  to  Mr. 
Redpath,  who  was  urging  lecture  engagements:  "I 
guess  I  am  out  of  the  field  permanently.  Have  got  a 
lovely  wife,  a  lovely  house,  a  lovely  carriage  and  a 
coachman  whose  style  and  dignity  are  simply  awe- 
inspiring —  nothing  less."  Patrick  McAleer  was 
accompanied  by  "George,"  who  was  both  butler 
and  guardian  spirit  of  the  house.  George  had  been 
the  body  servant  of  an  army  general,  and  was  of  the 
best  style  of  the  Southern  negro  of  that  day.  With 
much  formality  we  were  presented  to  him  by  Mr. 
Clemens,  who  said:  "George  came  one  day  to  wash 
windows;  he  will  stay  for  his  lifetime.  His  morals  are 
defective;  he  is  a  gambler  —  will  bet  on  anything.  I 
have  trained  him  so  that  now  he  is  a  proficient  liar 
— you  should  see  Mrs.  Clemens's  joy  and  pride  when 
she  hears  him  lying  to  the  newspaper  correspondent, 
or  the  visitor  at  the  front  door." 

We  dined  the  evening  of  our  arrival  at  the  War- 


V 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  145 

ners',  in  a  room  so  vivid  in  memory  that  the  scent  of 
the  flowers  still  lingers.  The  conservatory  was  on  the 
same  level  as  the  dining-room  and  opened  into  it, 
and  was  as  a  midsummer  out-of-door  garden,  with 
its  tangle  of  vines  and  flowers.  The  plants  were  set 
in  the  ground,  the  vines  climbed  up  and  overhung 
the  roof,  and  the  fountain,  with  lilies  at  the  base, 
made  fairy  music. 

Never  again  can  there  be  such  talk  as  scintillated 
about  the  table  that  night.  Howells,  Clemens,  Al- 
drich,  and  Warner  made  a  quartette  that  was  in 
comparable.  To  my  remembrance  comes  the  descrip 
tion  which  years  afterwards  Mr.  Clemens  gave  Mr. 
Stevenson  of  Mr.  Aldrich  and  which  only  inade 
quately  conveys  the  brilliancy  of  his  talk  when  he 
was  in  the  vein.  Mr.  Clemens  said:  "Mr.  Aldrich 
has  never  had  his  peer  for  prompt  and  pithy  and 
witty  and  humorous  sayings.  None  has  equalled 
him,  certainly  none  has  surpassed  him  in  the  felic 
ity  of  phrasing  with  which  he  clothes  those  children 
of  his  fancy.  Aldrich  is  always  brilliant;  he  can't  help 
it;  he  is  a  fire  opal  set  round  with  rose  diamonds; 
when  he  is  not  speaking,  you  know  that  his  dainty 
fancies  are  twinkling  and  glimmering  around  in  him ; 
when  he  speaks  the  diamonds  flash.  Yes,  he  is  al 
ways  brilliant;  he  will  be  brilliant  in  hell,  you  will 
see."  Stevenson,  smiling  a  chuckly  smile,  said,  "I 
hope  not."  "Well,  you  will,  and  he  will  dim  even 


146  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

those  ruddy  fires  and  look  like  a  transfigured 
Adonis  backed  against  a  pink  sunset." 

When  the  guests  returned  to  the  Clemens  house 
hold,  it  was  not  until  the  small  hours  of  the  night 
that  it  was  voted  to  adjourn  and  go  to  bed.  But 
long  before  that,  Mr.  Howells,  with  eyes  suffused 
with  tears,  had  pleaded  with  Mrs.  Aldrich  to  use  her 
influence  to  make  Mr.  Aldrich  abstain  from  any 
more  provocative  speech.  Mr.  Howells  said  he  could 
not  bear  it  longer,  he  was  ill  with  laughter,  and  that 
for  friendship's  sake  Aldrich  must  be  muffled  and 
checked.  Let  the  others  talk,  but  beg  him  to  keep 
still. 

The  next  morning,  as  we  were  dressing  and  talk 
ing  of  the  pleasant  plans  of  the  day,  there  was  a  loud 
and  rather  authoritative  knock  at  the  bedroom 
door,  and  Mr.  Clemens' s  voice  was  heard,  saying, 
"Aldrich,  come  out,  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  The 
other  occupant  of  the  room  wrapped  her  kimono 
round  her  more  closely,  and  crept  to  the  door,  for 
evidently  something  of  serious  import  was  happening, 
or  about  to  happen.  The  words  overheard  were  most 
disquieting.  Twain's  voice  had  its  usual  calmness  and 
slowness  of  speech,  but  was  lacking  in  the  kindly, 
mellow  quality  of  its  accustomed  tone,  as  he  said: 
"In  Heaven's  name,  Aldrich,  what  are  you  doing? 
Are  you  emulating  the  kangaroos,  with  hob-nails 
in  your  shoes,  or  trying  the  jump  ing-frog  business? 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  147 

Our  bedroom  is  directly  under  yours,  and  poor 
'Livy  and  her  headache  —  do  try  to  move  more 
quietly,  though  'Livy  would  rather  suffer  than  have 
you  give  up  your  game  on  her  account."  Then  the 
sound  of  receding  footsteps. 

Our  consternation  was  as  great  as  our  surprise 
at  the  reprimand,  for  we  had  been  unconscious  of 
walking  heavily,  or  of  making  unnecessary  noise. 
The  bedroom  was  luxurious  in  its  appointments,  the 
rugs  soft  on  the  floor;  we  could  only  surmise  that  the 
floor  boards  had  some  peculiar  acoustic  quality  that 
emphasized  sound.  On  tiptoe  we  finished  our  toilets, 
and  spoke  only  in  whispers,  much  disturbed  in  mind 
that  we  had  troubled  our  hostess,  and  hoped  she 
knew  that  we  would  not  willingly  have  added  to  her 
headache  even  the  weight  of  a  hummingbird's  wing. 
When  the  toilets  were  finished,  slowly  and  softly 
we  went  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  breakfast 
room,  where,  behind  the  large  silver  coffee  urn,  sat 
Mrs.  Clemens.  With  sorrowful  solicitude  we  asked 
if  her  headache  was  better,  and  begged  forgiveness 
for  adding  to  her  pain.  To  our  amazement  she  an 
swered,  "I  have  no  headache."  In  perplexed  con 
fusion  we  apologized  for  the  noise  we  inadvert 
ently  made.  "Noise!"  Mrs.  Clemens  replied.  "We 
have  not  heard  a  sound.  If  you  had  shouted  we 
should  not  have  known  it,  for  our  rooms  are  in 
another  wing  of  the  house."  At  the  other  end  of 


148  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

the  table  Mark  Twain  sat,  looking  as  guileless  as  a 
combination  of  cherubim  and  seraphim  —  never  a 
word,  excepting  with  lengthened  drawl,  more  slow 
than  usual,  "  Oh,  do  come  to  your  breakfast,  Aldrich, 
and  don't  talk  all  day." 

It  was  a  joyous  group  that  came  together  at  the 
table  that  morning,  and  loud  was  the  laughter,  and 
rapid  the  talk,  excepting  Mrs.  Clemens,  who  sat 
rather  quiet,  and  with  an  expression  of  face  as  if  she 
were  waiting.  Suddenly  Mr.  Clemens  brought  the 
laughter  to  a  pause  with  his  rap  on  the  table,  and 
then,  with  resonant  and  deep-toned  voice,  speak 
ing  even  more  slowly  than  usual,  he  asked  God's 
blessing  and  help  for  the  day.  The  words  were  ap 
parently  sincere,  and  spoken  with  reverent  spirit, 
but  we  who  listened  were  struck  with  the  same  sur 
prised  wonder  as  was  the  companion  of  his  rougher 
days,  Joe  Goodman,  who  came  East  to  visit  them, 
and  was  dumbfounded  to  see  Mark  Twain  ask  a 
blessing  and  join  in  family  worship.  Nothing  could 
have  so  clearly  shown  his  adoration  of  Mrs.  Clemens 
as  this.  He  worshipped  her  as  little  less  than  a  saint, 
and  would  have  "hid  her  needle  in  his  heart  to  save 
her  little  finger  from  a  scratch." 

Mrs.  Clemens,  in  these  early  days  of  their  married 
life,  was  a  woman  of  deep  religious  feeling,  and  Mr. 
Clemens  at  this  time  had  no  particular  doctrines  of 
his  own,  so  that  it  did  not  require  much  persuasion 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  149 

on  Mrs.  Clemens's  part  for  her  husband  to  yield  to 
her  wishes.  Later  they  both  drifted  very  far  from 
creeds  and  sects. 

In  1867,  on  the  steamship  Quaker  City,  Mr. 
Clemens  had  seen  in  young  Mr.  Charles  Langdon's 
room  a  miniature  of  his  sister,  Olivia.  At  the  first 
sight  of  the  pictured  face  it  possessed  for  Mr. 
Clemens  the  magnetism  and  influence  that  the 
lovely  original  was  to  have  for  him  throughout  his 
life.  It  drew  and  held  him  with  insistent  force,  and 
often  he  went  to  young  Langdon's  room  to  again 
look  upon  the  face  that  had  grown  so  dear.  Mr. 
Clemens  said  to  me,  that  "from  the  day  of  his  first 
sight  of  that  delicate  face  to  this,  he  could  truly 
say,  she  had  never  been  out  of  his  mind." 

It  was  on  this  memorable  transatlantic  cruise 
that  one  of  those  "Marchaunt  Adventurers"  was  to 
create  a  book,  the  fame  of  which  would  extend  all 
over  the  world. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher,  Lieutenant-General  Sher 
man,  and  General  Banks  were  expected  to  be  of 
the  party,  but  for  some  reason  did  not  materialize. 
This  was  Mr.  Clemens's  first  year  of  literary  recog 
nition  on  the  Atlantic  Coast.  He  had  published  in 
the  "Golden  Era"  "The  Jumping  Frog,"  and  fol 
lowed  it  by  several  notable  papers  written  in  his 
special  vein.  He  had  heard,  while  waiting  in  the 
shipping  office  of  the  Quaker  City,  a  newspaper  man 


150  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

ask  what  notables  were  going  on  the  cruise,  and  had 
heard  the  answer  of  the  clerk,  given  with  evident 
pride,  Lieu  ten  ant-General  Sherman,  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  and  Mark  Twain. 

Mr.  Clemens  was  at  this  time  thirty-one  or  two 
years  old ;  a  sparely  built  man  of  medium  height ; 
a  finely  shaped,  classical  head,  covered  with  thick, 
shaggy,  red-colored  hair;  a  mustache  of  the  same 
tawny  hue;  eyes  which  glimmered,  keen  and  twin 
kling,  under  overhanging,  bushy  eyebrows,  each  hair 
of  which  ruffled  itself,  taking  part  with  unwarrant 
able  intrusion  in  Mr.  Clemens's  moods,  were  they 
grave  or  gay.  Once,  in  my  remembrance,  so  belliger 
ent  and  fierce  was  their  aspect,  that  his  listener, 
who  had  the  temerity  to  differ  with  the  views  he 
was  expressing,  begged  the  privilege  of  brushing 
the  eyebrows  down,  that  she  might  have  courage 
to  continue  with  the  argument. 

The  years  which  Mr.  Clemens  had  passed  on  the 
Mississippi,  and  the  rough  life  of  California,  lacked 
greatly  the  refining  influence  of  a  different  civili 
zation.  With  that  sharp  schooling  he  had  become  too 
well  acquainted  with  all  the  coarser  types  of  human 
nature.  He  was  born  with  a  marvellous  gift  of 
phrase,  and  his  one-time  friends  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  developing  his  profanity  to  an  in 
comparable  perfection.  He  said  to  a  friend  who  re 
monstrated  with  him  on  the  habit,  "  In  certain  try- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  151 

ing  circumstances,  desperate  circumstances,  urgent 
circumstances,  profanity  furnishes  a  relief  denied 
even  to  prayer." 

After  the  return  from  the  Atlantic  cruise,  Mr. 
Clemens  was  invited  by  young  Mr.  Langdon  to  dine 
with  his  people  at  the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel,  in  New 
York.  The  invitation  was  eagerly  accepted,  for  it 
meant  for  him  the  realization  of  his  dream.  The 
delicate  face  of  the  miniature  in  young  Langdon's 
cabin  had  from  the  first  day  of  seeing  it  been  ever 
present  in  his  thought. 

Olivia  Langdon  was  twenty-two  years  old  at  the 
time  of  the  first  meeting.  A  slender,  girlish  figure, 
with  the  little  touch  of  appeal  in  her  smile  which 
long  confinement  to  a  sick-room  brings.  She  was  un 
doubtedly  to  Mr.  Clemens  a  type  of  woman  hitherto 
unknown.  Mr.  Anson  Burlingame,  a  year  before  this 
meeting,  had  given  Mr.  Clemens  the  needed  and 
convincing  advice,  to  seek  companionship  among 
men  of  superior  intellect  and  character;  to  refine 
himself ;  his  work;  always  to  climb;  never  to  affiliate 
with  inferiors.  From  this  advice  the  knowledge  was 
born  that  life  meant  something  higher  than  he  had 
yet  known;  but  in  despite  of  Mr.  Clemens's  desire 
for  better  things,  he  was  still  a  man  untrained  and 
unpolished;  the  customs  of  the  frontier  still  held 
him  fast. 

Miss  Langdon's  nature,  in  its  gentleness,  culture, 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 

spirituality,  was  the  antithesis  of  his.  Later,  when 
this  novel  and  unusual  Westerner  wooed  and  won 
this  white  and  fragile  flower  (for  so  she  always 
seemed),  the  men  of  her  world  said,  "We  did  not 
dare  to  speak  of  love  to  her,  she  seemed  as  if  she  so 
lightly  touched  earth,  belonging  to  another  sphere." 
At  sixteen  years  of  age,  Miss  Langdon  had  fallen 
on  the  ice  and  seriously  injured  her  spine.  For  the 
next  two  years  she  was  confined  to  her  bed,  a  pathetic 
invalid,  unable  to  sit  even  when  supported ;  unable 
to  lie  in  any  position  upon  her  back.  Mr.  Langdon 
felt  his  wealth  was  as  sand  to  be  scattered  to  the 
four  winds,  if  by  its  use  relief  could  be  brought. 
Great  physicians  and  surgeons  were  summoned  to 
her  bedside ;  but  she  failed  steadily,  until  even  hope 
was  dead.  Among  the  many  mechanical  devices  for 
her  relief  in  position  was  a  pulley  attached  to  the 
ceiling  and  to  her  bed,  raising  her  so  slowly,  and 
almost  imperceptibly,  that  it  was  an  hour  before 
she  could  be  brought  to  a  half-reclining  position; 
even  with  that  gentle  movement  she  became  un 
conscious.  The  physician  dared  not  attempt  the 
venture  again.  After  two  years  of  helpless  suffering, 
one  day  a  half-sheet  of  paper  was  blown  in  at  an 
open  door,  and  fluttered  to  Mrs.  Langdon's  feet.  It 
was  a  poorly  printed  advertisement  of  marvellous 
restoration  to  health  by  the  laying  on  of  hands ;  the 
blind  seeing;  the  lame  walking;  the  deaf  hearing. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  153 

Mrs.  Langdon  read  the  soiled  bit  of  paper  with  in 
credulous  mind;  but  notwithstanding  her  unbelief, 
the  mother  love  grasped  at  the  straw.  Taking  the 
sheet  of  paper  to  Mr.  Langdon,  she  asked  him  to 
read  it,  and  as  he  read  she  said:  "The  laying  on  of 
hands  was  a  miracle  in  our  Saviour's  day;  pray  God 
to  grant  a  miracle  in  this.  Physicians,  surgeons,  edu 
cation,  science  —  all  have  failed  us,  all  have  proved 
futile;  hope  itself  is  vanished." 

An  appointment  was  made  with  Dr.  Newton  for 
the  next  day.  He  came  into  the  darkened  room,  and 
as  he  entered  said,  "Have  light;  throw  up  the  cur 
tains;  open  wide  the  windows."  Approaching  the 
bed,  he  bent  over  the  pale  face  and  the  slight  figure 
lying  there,  murmuring  a  short  prayer;  then  in  low 
voice  he  said:  "Daughter,  be  of  good  comfort,  ac 
cording  to  your  faith  be  it  unto  you.  I  put  my  arms 
about  you  and  bid  you  sit  up."  Earnest  was  the 
dissent  of  the  watchers  at  the  bedside.  They  told 
the  danger,  the  pain,  the  long  unconsciousness  that 
had  followed  the  experiment;  the  strict  orders  of  the 
physicians  that  it  must  never  be  repeated.  The 
low  voice  answered,  "My  arms  are  still  about  you; 
sit  up."  Slowly,  and  with  vague  eyes  the  slender 
form  obeyed.  The  girl  who  had  lain  helpless  on  that 
bed  for  two  years  sat  erect  and  still.  A  few  moments 
of  unbroken  silence  passed,  and  then  in  the  sound 
less  room  the  voice  was  heard  again.  "My  arm  is 


iS4  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

still  about  you;  lie  down."  Naturally  and  quietly 
the  body  relaxed,  the  head  sank  to  the  white  pil 
lows.  For  a  moment  the  strange  Healer  stood  mo 
tionless,  then  bending  over  the  bed  said,  "Sleep  well 
to-night;  to-morrow  I  will  come."  And  was  gone 
before  any  there  were  sufficiently  aroused  from  their 
astonishment  to  intercept  him.  • 

The  next  day  the  Healer  again  came  to  the  bed 
side,  and  said  to  the  sick  girl,  "Arise,  put  your  foot 
to  the  floor  and  stand."  The  following  day,  at  the 
farthest  end  of  the  room,  he  placed  a  chair,  asking 
the  invalid  to  go  to  it.  When  she  was  seated,  the 
Healer  said:  "Health  and  strength  will  now  abide 
with  you.  Sickness  and  pain  are  banished."  Leaving 
the  girl  still  sitting  in  the  chair,  the  Healer  went 
slowly  from  the  room.  Mr.  Langdon,  marvelling 
greatly,  followed,  saying:  "What  can  I  offer  you 
that  will  induce  you  to  stay  and  watch  over  my 
sick  child?"  The  Healer,  slowly  turning,  said:  "'O 
thou  of  little  faith,  wherefore  didst  thou  doubt?'  I 
want  neither  gold  nor  silver.  My  sick  and  suffering 
call  me,  and  I  must  go  to  do  the  work  that  waits 
for  me  to  do." 

After  the  meeting  in  New  York  of  the  Langdon 
family,  an  invitation  was  given  to  Mr.  Clemens  to 
visit  the  household  at  any  time  he  found  it  con 
venient.  Many  of  Mr.  Clemens's  lecture  engage 
ments  were  in  the  State  of  New  York,  so  that  often 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  155 

he  could  avail  himself  of  the  privilege.  There  had 
been  a  gay  and  happy  week  spent  in  the  Langdon 
home,  and  in  that  week  Mr.  Clemens  more  fully 
realized  how  irreclaimably  all  his  hopes  and  dreams 
—  his  ambition  and  desire  —  were  centred  on  the 
girl  whose  pictured  face  had  so  strongly  drawn  and 
held  him.  On  the  morning  of  the  last  day  of  the 
visit,  Mr.  Clemens  said  to  young  Langdon:  "My 
week  is  up,  and  I  must  go.  I  ought  to  go.  I  am  in 
love  with  your  sister."  There  was  a  pause  for  a 
moment;  then  young  Langdon,  much  distressed, 
said:  "Don't  wait.  There  is  a  train  in  half  an  hour. 
I  will  get  you  to  it."  But  Mr.  Clemens  refused  the 
offer,  and  young  Langdon  had  to  be  content  with 
the  promise  that  Mr.  Clemens  would  be  prudent, 
watchful,  and  wary,  and  would  go  that  night.  But 
when  night  came,  and  the  adieus  were  said,  there 
was  an  accident  to  the  wagon  as  it  started  from  the 
door  —  young  Langdon  and  his  guest  came  down 
with  force  on  the  paved  street.  Neither  of  the  pas 
sengers  was  hurt,  but  an  inspiration  was  born  to 
Mr.  Clemens  —  the  opportunity  to  prolong  his 
visit ;  and  it  was  two  weeks  later  before  he  "allowed  " 
that  he  was  quite  strong  enough  to  resume  his  lec 
tures.  When  the  lecturer  set  out  again  on  his  trav 
els,  there  was  a  provisional  engagement  to  Miss 
Langdon. 
When  her  father  asked  Mr.  Clemens  for  the  names 


156  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

of  some  of  his  San  Francisco  friends,  that  he  might 
write  to  them  for  credentials,  he  gave  among  others 
the  name  of  Mr.  Joe  Goodman,  who  was  owner  and 
editor-in-chief  of  "The  Enterprise,"  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  frontier  papers  ever  published.  In  giving 
the  name  of  Mr.  Goodman,  Mr.  Clemens  added  that 
"he  had  lied  for  Goodman  a  hundred  times,  and 
Goodman  would  lie  for  him  if  necessary,  so  his 
testimony  would  be  of  no  value." 

At  the  time  of  this  joyous  visit  in  Hartford,  Olivia 
/  Langdon  had  been  married  four  years.  She  was  no 
longer  the  inexperienced,  retiring  girl  that  had  loved 
the  shadow  of  life  and  found  her  happiness  in  its 
shade.  The  visit  to  Europe,  the  association  with  the 
brilliant  men  and  women  she  met  there,  had  greatly 
enlarged  her  vision,  awakening  her  fully  to  the  re 
sponsibility  she  had  assumed.  She  took  with  quiet 
and  simple  dignity  her  place,  and  guided  with  won 
derful  tact  a  nature  so  untrained  and  undisciplined, 
so  filled  with  wild  and  savage  impulses,  that  a  less 
angelic  and  courageous  soul  would  often  have  shrunk 
from  the  self-appointed  task.  But  always  to  help  and 
sustain  her  was  the  knowledge  of  his  idolizing  love 
for  her.  He  soon  learned  to  realize  her  rare  literary 
perception,  and  always,  as  far  as  she  was  able,  she 
encouraged  him  to  give  only  his  best  to  the  world. 
In  an  early  letter  to  Mr.  Twichell,  Mr.  Clemens  in 
a  characteristic  way  speaks  of  this  new  influence. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  157 

"Originally  I  quit  [smoking]  on  'Livy's  account. 
Not  that  I  believe  that  there  was  the  faintest  reason 
in  the  matter,  but  just  as  I  would  deprive  myself  of 
sugar  in  my  coffee  if  she  wished  it,  or  quit  wearing 
socks  if  she  thought  them  immoral." 

Out  of  those  far-off  days  are  two  indelible  pic 
tures  in  my  memories  of  the  last  morning  and  eve 
ning  of  our  happy  visit:  the  assembling  of  the  guests 
at  the  breakfast  table,  and  while  we  waited  the 
entrance  of  our  hostess,  Mr.  Clemens,  with  sober 
face  and  his  inimitable  drawl,  telling  his  night  ex 
perience,  with  the  orders  for  the  next  day.  The  eve 
ning  before,  Mrs.  Clemens  had  been  speaking  of  her 
consternation  in  finding  she  had  misspelled  a  word 
in  a  formal  note,  and  said  it  had  always  been  a  great 
mortification  to  her  that  she  could  not  spell;  that 
the  sound  of  a  word  left  her  helpless  as  to  the  spell 
ing  of  it,  and  that,  for  Mr.  Clemens's  sake,  she 
should  not  be  allowed  to  write  even  the  simplest 
note  unless  he  looked  it  over.  While  she  was  speak 
ing  there  glimmered  and  twinkled  in  Mr.  Clemens'e 
eye  a  laughing  imp  that  boded  mischief.  Mr. 
Clemens  said,  "  I  had  just  fallen  into  '  the  first  sweet 
sleep  of  dawn,'  when  this  murmur  reached  my  ear: 
'Mark,  do  tell  me  how  to  spell  sardines.'  I  replied, 
'  'Livy,  for  God's  sake,  don't  let  them  think  down 
in  the  city  that  you  are  destitute  of  general  in 
formation  in  regard  to  spelling.  How  did  you  spell 


158  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

sardines?'  And  she  told  me.  Then  I  got  up  and 
opened  the  window  and  picked  up  her  poor  little 
scrap  of  paper,  which  she  had  left  on  the  ledge  for 
the  market-boy  to  take  in  the  morning,  on  which 
she  had  written  her  wish  for  extra  milk,  and  a  small 
box  of  sardines.  I  brought  the  bit  of  paper  to  the 
bedside  and  said,  '  Here,  Love,  is  your  pen  and  ink. 
Just  put  an  "  h  "  at  the  end  of  your  sardines,  then  we 
can  both  lie  down  in  peace  to  sleep,  and  in  the 
morning  when  the  market-man  reads  your  paper, 
he  will  know  you  know  how  to  spell  the  fish,  al 
though  the  "h"  is  always  silent.'  And  God  forever 
bless  her!  she  wrote  it.  But  if  she  ever  discovers 
that  in  that  spelling  I  was  wrong,  why,  the  china 
and  I  will  fly." 

Mr.  Howells,  in  his  sketch  of  Mr.  Clemens,  says: 
"  It  was  part  of  his  joke  to  pretend  a  violence  in  that 
gentlest  creature  which  the  more  amusingly  realized 
the  situation  to  their  friends." 

The  last  evening  of  that  visit  in  Hartford  is  as 
clear  and  vivid  as  if  the  men  and  women  that  clus 
tered  about  the  blazing  fire  in  the  long  red-curtained 
room  that  night  had  not  now  passed  into  shadowy 
phantoms,  but  lived  still  sentient  with  life  and  hap 
piness. 

It  was  voted  at  dinner  that  the  company  would 
not  disband  until  the  genial  morn  appeared,  and 
that  there  should  be  at  midnight  a  wassail  brewed.. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  159 

The  rosy  apples  roasted  at  the  open  fire,the  wine  and 
sugar  added,  and  the  ale  —  but  at  this  point  Mrs. 
Clemens  said,  "Youth,  we  have  no  ale."  There  was 
a  rapid  exit  by  Mr.  Clemens,  who  reappeared  in  a 
moment  in  his  historic  sealskin  coat  and  cap,  but 
still  wearing  his  low-cut  evening  shoes.  He  said  he 
wanted  a  walk,  and  was  going  to  the  village  for  the 
ale  and  should  shortly  return  with  the  ingredient. 
Deaf,  absolutely  deaf,  to  Mrs.  Clemens's  earnest 
voice,  that  he  should  at  least  wear  overshoes  that 
snowy  night,  he  disappeared.  In  an  incredibly  short 
time  he  reappeared,  excited  and  hilarious,  with 
his  rapid  walk  in  the  frosty  air  —  very  wet  shoes, 
and  no  cap.  To  Mrs.  Clemens's  inquiry,  "Youth, 
what  have  you  done  with  your  cap?"  there  was  a 
hurried  search  in  all  his  pockets,  a  blank  and  sur 
prised  look  on  his  face,  as  he  said:  "Why,  I  am 
afraid  I  have  thrown  it  away.  I  remember  being  very 
warm  and  taking  it  off,  carrying  it  in  my  hand,  and 
now  I  do  remember,  at  such  a  turn  in  the  road,  my 
hand  feeling  a  strain  of  position,  opening  it  and 
throwing  away  in  the  darkness  something  in  my 
hand  that  caused  the  sensation."  Then,  in  real 
anxiety,  "'Livy,  do  you  think  it  could  have  been 
my  cap?" 

Mr.  Clemens  was  sent  for  George,  with  Mrs. 
Clemens's  instruction  that  George  should  carefully 
retrace  Mr.  Clemens's  footsteps  in  the  quest  for  the 


160  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

mislaid  cap,  and  also  to  see  that  Mr.  Clemens  put  on 
dry  shoes.  When  the  culprit  returned,  the  wet  low 
shoes  had  been  exchanged  for  a  pair  of  white  cow- 
skin  slippers,  with  the  hair  outside,  and  clothed  in 
them,  with  most  sober  and  smileless  face,  he  twisted 
his  angular  body  into  all  the  strange  contortions 
known  to  the  dancing  darkies  of  the  South.  In  this 
wise  the  last  day  of  the  joyous,  jubilant  visit  came  to 
the  close.  Untroubled  by  the  flight  of  time  I  still  can 
hear  a  soft  and  gentle  tone,  "Youth,  O  Youth!"  for 
so  she  always  called  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  the  first  years  of  Mr.  Aldrich's  marriage,  many 
happy  hours  were  passed  in  his  "Castle  in  Spain  " 
with  European  guide-books  and  itineraries  much  in 
evidence,  but  not  until  the  autumn  of  1874  did  the 
plans  take  definite  shape. 

"One  dearest  sight  I  have  not  seen, 
It  almost  seems  a  wrong; 
A  dream  I  had  when  life  was  new. 
Alas,  our  dreams!  they  come  not  true: 
I  thought  to  see  fair  Carcassonne  — 
That  lovely  city  —  Carcassonne!" 

The  ocean  voyage  and  the  journey  in  Europe  in 
the  seventies  was  a  serious  adventure,  bringing  to 
the  traveller  something  of  the  same  distinction  as 
that  which  enshrines  the  Turkish  pilgrim  who  makes 
the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  and  by  so  doing  earns  the 
right  to  have  a  certain  form  of  turban  cut  upon  his 
tomb. 

In  a  drizzling  rain-storm  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
24th  of  March,  1875,  we  went  on  board  the  Cunard 
steamer  Abyssinia. 

"All  for  adventure  in  the  great  New  Regions, 
All  for  Eldorado  and  to  sail  the  world  around." 

The  hearts  of  the  Adventurers  were  heavy  on  that 
sombre  day  on  which  they  were  outward  bound, 


162  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

for  the  memory  of  two  little  faces  and  the  pressure 
of  warm  lips  had  its  insistent  pain.  The  letter  of  fare 
well  which  the  jocund  sprites  indited  and  sent  to  the 
steamer  did  not  serve  to  lessen  the  heartache.  . 


S^&A&wf    *<rusiv^ 


M\Y      W^  NlhMIW? 

Y<#       V^ot/UD 

At    ^      0cVoCK 


The  Abyssinia  was  one  of  the  largest  of  the  Royal 
Mail  steamships,  and  although  she  was  but  one 
twelfth  of  the  size  of  the  present  Olympic  she 
seemed  a  Leviathan  to  our  unaccustomed  eyes.  A 
small  group  of  friends  had  come  aboard  to  wish  us 
God-speed  and  bon  voyage;  of  that  group  none  are 
more  distinct  in  memory  than  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor, 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  163 

who  had  sent  us  a  box  of  "Heidsieck,"  pronouncing 
it  the  best  cure  for  mal  de  mer,  and  insisting  that  it 
must  be  rescued  from  the  steward's  care  and  placed 
where  it  would  be  close  at  hand.  Very  clear  is  the 
picture  of  Mr.  Taylor,  standing  in  the  little  cabin 
(which  was  much  too  small  for  his  big  body)  and  en 
gineering  with  the  skill  of  a  general  that  precious 
package  to  a  supposedly  safe  haven  under  the  berth, 
where  it  remained  unopened,  but  not  unthought  of, 
during  its  erratic  excursions  with  the  steamer  trunks 
and  bags,  backwards  and  forwards,  the  length  and 
breadth  of  our  cabin  through  the  terrible  days  and 
hours  of  that  "Ocean  Sea." 

At  the  sound  of  a  gong,  and  the  loud  call  through 
the  ship,  "All  for  the  shore,"  Mr.  Taylor  hurried 
back  to  the  cabin  with  this  parting  injunction  to  the 
venturesome  mariner  he  found  there:  "Before  the 
ship  makes  a  revolution,  go  into  your  berth  and  stay 
there  for  twenty-four  hours.  By  taking  a  recumbent 
position  the  system  adapts  itself  to  the  motion  of 
the  sea,  and  you  will  probably  escape  the  disagree 
able  effect  of  an  uneven  keel." 

Mr.  Taylor's  reputation  as  a  traveller  was  great ; 
there  could  be  no  hesitation  in  accepting  the  advice; 
so  although  it  was  but  two  o'clock  in  the  day,  the 
straight  and  coffin-like  berth  held  its  unwilling  occu 
pant,  and  when,  soon  afterwards,  Mr.  Aldrich  hur 
ried  below,  saying,  "We  have  started;  come  up  and 


164  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

See  the  receding  shores,"  he  found  tearful  eyes,  a  ship 
shape  cabin,  and  everything  ready  for  the  siege  Mrs. 
Stowe  had  foretold.  "  Don't  leave  so  much  as  the  un 
locking  of  a  trunk  to  be  done  after  sailing.  In  the  few 
precious  moments  when  the  ship  stands  still,  before 
she  weighs  anchor,  set  your  house,  that  is  to  say  your 
stateroom,  as  much  in  order  as  if  you  were  going  to 
be  hanged ;  place  everything  in  the  most  convenient 
position  to  be  seized  without  trouble  at  a  moment's 
notice ;  for  be  sure  in  half  an  hour  after  sailing,  an  in 
finite  desperation  will  seize  you  in  which  the  grass 
hopper  will  be  a  burden.  If  anything  is  in  your  trunk, 
it  might  almost  as  well  be  in  the  sea,  for  any  prob 
ability  of  your  getting  to  it." 

The  walls  of  this  little  cabin  in  which  we  were 
immured  were  stained  a  sickening  hue  of  faded 
mustard  yellow,  with  wavy,  zigzag  lines  of  lighter 
shade  intended  to  represent  the  natural  grain  of  the 
wood.  Built  in  the  corner  of  the  room  was  a  bracket 
on  which  rested  a  box  containing  a  small  oil  lamp  en 
cased  in  frosted  glass,  and  giving  to  the  two  cabins  it 
was  supposed  to  illuminate  a  dim,  religious  light ;  a 
wash-stand  held  a  ewer  and  bowl,  decorated  with  a 
geometric  pattern  of  dingy  brown,  and  was  it  for 
economy's  sake  that  all  the  china  of  the  ship  was 
identical  with  the  ewers  and  bowls  of  the  cabin?  Two 
portholes  added  to  the  general  gloom,  the  water  dash 
ing  against  them  and  darkening  the  little  light  of 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  165 

day.  But  these  ills  were  as  nothing  against  the  in 
describable  scent  that  took  possession  of  the  olfac 
tory  nerves  and  penetrated  every  fibre  of  wood  in 
the  pristine  steamboats.  Towels  and  napkins,  cups 
and  saucers,  plates  and  curtains,  all  were  inoculated 
with  an  odor  so  odious  "that  all  the  perfumes  of 
Arabia  will  [could]  not  sweeten." 

Mr.  Aldrich  had  looked  forward  eagerly  to  the 
days  on  shipboard.  He  had  spent  many  hours  on  his 
uncle's  yacht  and  had  been  a  fair-weather  sailor; 
keen  was  his  disappointment  that  the  chair  by  his 
side  on  deck  for  the  first  twenty-four  hours  would  be 
vacant ;  frequent  were  the  visits  and  stirring  the  tales 
brought  to  the  coffin-like  berth  in  those  first  hours. 
The  captain,  the  passengers,  the  smoking-room  and 
the  deck,  the  enormous  size  of  the  ship,  and  all  the 
details  of  the  environment;  but  when  the  voyager 
strayed  into  the  dining-hall  his  imagination  was 
made  captive  by  the  splendors  of  the  confectionery 
art,  the  castles  and  turrets,  the  sweetmeats  and 
cakes;  a  "bill  of  fare"  had  been  secured  and  two 
earnest  plotters  conspired  as  to  what  viands  should 
descend  that  evening  to  the  small  stateroom.  But 
before  the  call  for  dinner  was  sounded,  the  occupant 
of  the  berth  had  rescinded  her  order  for  the  "cakes 
and  ale,"  substituting  a  request  for  tea  and  toast, 
and  had  also  urged  the  stewardess  to  interview  the 
ship's  doctor,  and  beg  the  privilege  of  having  the  dim 


166  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

light  in  the  corner  continue,  a  glow-worm  through  the 
night,  for  the  ship  had  begun  to  rock  from  side  to 
side  with  a  dizzy,  continuous  motion  that  was  not 
at  all  reassuring. 

Long  before  the  sumptuous  repast  in  the  dining- 
saloon  was  half  finished,  the  tea  and  toast  had  been 
imperatively  waved  away;  abject  misery  had  set  in; 
the  only  palliative  would  be  Mr.  Aldrich's  presence, 
for  had  he  not  assured  the  sufferer  that  he  was  never 
sick  at  sea,  and  should  she  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  be 
ill,  his  days  and  nights  would  be  devoted  to  her 
service?  After  what  seemed  months  of  misery,  a 
phantom  bearing  an  outward  semblance  to  Mr. 
Aldrich  entered  the  room.  The  face  had  grown  sharp 
and  thin  and  deathlike  in  its  pallor;  the  voice  that 
uttered  the  words, "  I  have  been  so  ill,"  was  weak  and 
languid;  and  then,  "If  I  can  live  to  climb  into  that 
upper  berth  —  God  pity  us  both  and  pity  us  all." 
With  this,  the  heroic  effort  was  made,  and  boots, 
overcoat,  gloves,  and  hat  vanished  from  sight,  and 
only  the  creaking  and  groaning  of  the  boards  over 
her  head  told  the  sufferer  that  the  other  Adventurer 
still  lived. 

For  eleven  days  and  nights  the  agony  did  not 
abate.  Once  in  the  night  a  child's  voice  rang  out  in 
the  silence,  "Oh,  Mother,  please  won't  you  keep 
the  boat  still  for  just  five  minutes ! "  I  am  sure  that  all 
who  listened  voiced  that  prayer;  but  the  sea  was 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  167 

obdurate;  it  had  nearly  solved  the  problem  of  per 
petual  motion. 

In  these  awful  days  the  blithe  and  joyous  spirit 
of  Mr.  Aldrich  suffered  a  temporary  eclipse,  a  sea 
change  into  something  new  and  strange.  His  policy  of 
life  became  like  lago's: "  Demand  me  nothing:  From 
this  time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word!"  One  sen 
tence  did  for  all  his  needs:  "Don't  let  that  steward 
speak  to  me.  I  want  to  be  let  alone.  It  is  hellish!" 
And  so  the  days  and  hours  passed  until  at  last  we 
came  into  St.  George's  Channel,  where  the  sea  was 
beautifully  smooth,  and  we  had  visions  of  green 
fields.  Captain  Hains  sent  that  evening  a  peremptory 
order  that  the  two  seats  at  his  table  must  no  longer 
be  vacant.  The  effort  was  made,  and  two  wan  spec 
tres  appeared  at  the  entrance  of  the  dining-saloon. 
I  have  a  dim  remembrance  of  a  way  being  made  for 
us  through  a  crowd  of  people  sitting  on  a  red- 
cushioned  bench  that  was  built  against  the  side  of 
the  ship  the  entire  length  of  the  saloon,  the  closed 
ports  at  regular  distances  above  it.  The  cushioned 
bench  served  for  a  lounging-place  through  the  day 
when  not  occupied  as  seats  at  the  dining-table.  The 
other  side  of  the  table  had  the  ordinary  chairs  turn 
ing  on  pivots ;  much  more  desirable  were  these  chairs 
than  the  bench,  where  one  must  take  the  perilous 
journey  over  the  red  cushions,  behind  the  backs  of 
the  persons  seated  thereon,  to  arrive  at  the  allotted 


i68  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

place.  Sometimes  the  fellow  passengers  were  con 
siderate  and  moved ;  sometimes  they  sat  very  tight, 
so  that  the  traverser  had  to  step  over  a  spine  or  two 
before  sliding  down  into  the  waiting  place. 

There  was  much  laughter  and  animated  talk  at  the 
Captain's  table  that  night,  Mr.  Aldrich  having  re 
covered  his  spirits.  I  remember  an  inimitable,  funny, 
whimsically  fantastic,  speech  of  his,  against  the  sea, 
and  the  very  evident  disapproval  of  the  English 
clergyman  who  sat  erect  and  rigid  opposite,  and  of 
his  finally  saying,  with  much  solemnity,  "Mr.  Al 
drich,  God  made  the  sea,  the  sea  is  His,  He  made  it." 
"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich,  "but  He  did  not  like  it  very 
well,  you  will  remember,  when  He  was  on  it,  for  He 
got  out  and  walked." 

A  few  hours  later  the  Abyssinia's  engines  ceased 
to  throb,  —  the  voyage  was  over.  Coming  towards 
us  was  the  little  steam  tender,  the  Otter,  which  the 
steward  pronounced  "the  Hotter,"  and  said  it  would 
soon  take  us  "hoff."  A  short  run  up  the  Mersey 
River,  and  then  adieu  to  ship  and  sea  for  half  a  year. 
There  was  an  enjoyable  supper  at  the  North- West 
ern  Hotel,  in  Liverpool,  and  at  midnight  we  took 
the  train  to  Chester,  the  city  of  which  Mr.  Haw 
thorne  said,  "  I  felt  at  last  as  if  I  had  had  a  glimpse 
of  Old  England.  I  must  go  again  and  again  to  Ches 
ter,  for  I  suppose  there  is  not  a  more  curious  place  in 
the  world." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  169 

"  It  seems  almost  an  Irish  bull  to  say  that  one  can 
be  in  London  only  once  for  the  first  time.  In  other 
places  you  may  renew  first  impressions.  A  city  on 
the  Continent  always  remains  a  foreign  city  to  you, 
no  matter  how  often  you  visit  it ;  but  that  first  time 
in  London  is  an  experience  which  can  never  be  made 
to  repeat  itself." 

Mr.  Aldrich  has  told  so  delightfully  of  those  first 
days  that  I  copy  from  his  printed  page : 

"In  London  there  is  a  kind  of  hotel  of  which  we 
have  no  counterpart  in  the  United  States.  This 
hotel  is  usually  located  in  some  semi-aristocratic  side 
street,  and  wears  no  badge  of  its  servitude  beyond 
a  large,  well-kept  brass  door-plate,  bearing  the 
legend  'Jones's  Hotel'  or  'Brown's  Hotel,'  as  the 
case  may  be ;  but  be  it  Brown  or  Jones,  he  has  been 
dead  at  least  fifty  years,  and  the  establishment  is 
conducted  by  Robinson.  There  is  no  coffee-room  or 
public  dining-room,  or  even  office,  in  this  hotel;  your 
meals  are  served  in  your  apartments;  the  furniture  is 
solid  and  comfortable,  the  attendance  admirable, 
the  cuisine  unexceptionable,  and  the  bill  abominable. 
But  for  ease,  quietness,  and  a  sort  of  1812  odor  of 
respectability,  this  hotel  has  nothing  to  compare  with 
it  in  the  wide  world.  It  is  here,  above  all,  that  you 
will  be  brought  in  contact  with  Smith. 

"It  was  on  our  arrival  in  London,  one  April  after 
noon,  that  the  door  of  what  looked  like  a  private 


170  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

mansion,  in  Dover  Street,  was  thrown  open  to  us  by 
a  boy  broken  out  all  over  with  buttons.  Behind  this 
boy  stood  Smith.  I  call  him  simply  Smith  for  two 
reasons:  in  the  first  place,  because  it  is  convenient 
to  do  so,  and  in  the  second  place,  because  that  is  what 
he  called  himself.  I  wish  it  were  as  facile  a  matter  to 
explain  how  this  seemingly  unobtrusive  person  in 
stantly  took  possession  of  us,  bullied  us  with  his  use 
fulness,  and  knocked  us  down  with  his  urbanity. 
From  the  moment  he  stepped  forward  to  relieve  us 
of  our  hand-luggage,  we  were  his  —  and  remained 
his  until  that  other  moment,  some  weeks  later,  when 
he  handed  us  our  parcels  again,  and  stood  statu 
esque  on  the  doorstep,  with  one  finger  lifted  to  his 
forehead  in  decorous  salute,  as  we  drove  away. 

"Smith  is  a  man  of  about  forty,  but  so  unassum 
ing  that  I  do  not  think  he  would  assume  to  be  so  old 
or  so  young  as  that.  He  is  always  in  evening  dress, 
and  wears  white  cotton  gloves,  which  set  your  teeth 
on  edge,  during  dinner  service.  He  is  a  person  whose 
gravity  of  deportment  is  such  as  to  lend  seriousness 
to  the  coal-scuttle  when  he  replenishes  the  parlor 
fire.  Smith's  respect  for  you,  at  least  its  outward 
manifestation,  is  accompanied  by  a  deep,  unexpressed 
respect  for  himself.  He  not  only  knows  his  own  place, 
but  he  knows  yours,  and  holds  you  to  it.  He  can 
wrap  up  more  pitying  disapprobation  in  a  scarcely 
perceptible  curl  of  his  nether  lip  than  another  man 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  171 

could  express  in  a  torrent  of  words.  I  have  gone  about 
London  a  whole  forenoon  with  one  of  Smith's  thin 
smiles  clinging  like  a  blister  to  my  consciousness. 

"Our  purpose  in  London  was  to  see  the  sights,  to 
visit  all  those  historic  buildings  and  monuments  and 
galleries  which  were  wrested  from  us  by  the  war  of 
1776.  We  were  struck,  and  then  began  to  be  appalled, 
by  the  accuracy,  minuteness,  and  comprehensive 
ness  of  Smith's  knowledge  of  London.  It  was  ency 
clopaedic.  He  was  a  vitalized  time-table  of  railroads 
and  coaches  and  steamboats,  a  walking,  breathing 
directory  to  all  the  shops,  parks,  churches,  mu 
seums,  and  theatres  of  the  bewildering  Babylon.  He 
had,  stamped  on  his  brain,  a  map  of  all  the  tangled 
omnibus  routes,  he  knew  the  best  seats  in  every  place 
of  amusement,  the  exact  moment  the  performance 
began  in  each,  and  could  put  his  finger  without 
hesitating  a  second  on  the  very  virtuoso's  collection 
you  wanted  to  examine.  Before  we  discovered  his 
almost  wicked  amplitude  of  information,  we  used 
to  consult  him  touching  intended  pilgrimages,  but 
shortly  gave  it  up,  finding  that  our  provincial  plans 
generally  fell  cold  upon  him.  He  was  almost  amused, 
one  day,  at  our  desire  to  ascertain  the  whereabouts 
of  that  insignificant  house  in  Cheapside  —  it  is 
No.  17,  if  I  remember  —  in  which  Keats  wrote  his 
sonnet  on  Chapman's  Homer.  Our  New  World  curios 
ity  as  to  certain  localities  which  possess  no  interest 


172  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

whatever  to  the  Londoner  must  often  have  struck 
Smith  as  puerile.  His  protest  or  his  disapproval  —  I 
do  not  know  how  to  name  it  —  was  always  so  eva 
nescent  and  shadowy  that  he  cannot  be  said  to  have 
expressed  it;  it  was  something  in  his  manner,  and 
not  in  his  words  —  something  as  vague  as  a  fleeting 
breath  on  a  window-glass;  but  it  dampened  us. 

"The  earliest  part  of  our  acquaintanceship  was 
fraught  with  mutual  perplexities.  It  was  the  longest 
time  before  we  discovered  that  ay  ill  meant  Hay 
Hill  Street,  Smith  making  a  single  mouthful  of 
it,  thus  —  ayill.  One  morning  he  staggered  us  by 
asking  if  we  would  like  'a  hapricot  freeze'  for 
dessert.  We  assented,  and  would  have  assented  if  he 
had  proposed  iced  hippopotamus ;  but  the  nature  of 
the  dish  was  a  mystery  to  us,  and  perhaps  never, 
since  the  world  took  shape  out  of  chaos,  was  there  a 
simple  mould  of  apricot  jelly  looked  forward  to  in 
such  poignant  suspense." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SOON  after  our  arrival  at  Brown's,  Smith  found 
active  use  for  his  highly  polished  tray.  Mr. 
Aldrich  had  a  number  of  old  and  new  friends  living 
in  London,  and  many  were  the  notes,  letters,  and 
cards  that  found  a  temporary  resting-place  on  its 
bright  surface.  Among  the  many  notes  that  were 
laid  there  one  foggy  morning  was  one  whkh  brought 
to  its  recipients  a  throb  of  nervous  excitement  that 
the  yellowing  paper  still  retains. 

"DEAR  MRS.  ALDRICH: 

"  I  was  greatly  disappointed  in  not  finding  you  at 
home  when  I  called  yesterday.  Will  you,  and  Mr. 
Aldrich,  give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at 
dinner,  on  Sunday  next,  at  eight  o'clock?  I  hope  you 
have  no  other  engagement  for  that  evening.  If  you 
are  free,  and  can  come  to  us,  we  would  like  to  ask 
Mr.  Browning,  Mr.  Huxley,  Mr.  Hughes,  and  a  few 
other  friends  to  meet  you.  With  eager  anticipation 
of  soon  meeting,  believe  me, 
"Sincerely 

"PHCEBE  GARNANT  SMALLEY" 

An  affirmative  answer  to  the  note  was  at  once 
dispatched,  and  during  the  busy  hours  of  the  week 


174  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

many  a  tremulous  thought  was  given  to  the  ex 
pectant  meeting.  When  the  eventful  evening  came, 
Smith  was  sharply  catechized  as  to  the  exact  time 
it  would  take  a  hansom  to  traverse  the  distance  that 
lay  between  Brown's  and  the  Smalleys'  residence. 
There  had  been  serious  calculations  as  to  which 
dress  would  be  more  becoming  to  the  wearer  — 
black  satin,  relieved  with  light  blue,  or  white  bro 
cade,  the  two  being  the  extent  of  evening  gowns 
provided  for  the  journey.  After  the  merits  of  the 
two  had  been  unduly  weighed,  the  odds  were  in 
favor  of  the  white. 

Mr.  George  Washburn  Smalley,  since  his  choice 
of  occupation  as  a  newspaper  correspondent,  had 
revolutionized  the  work  in  his  special  line,  and  had 
become  one  of  the  world's  leading  men,  and  at  this 
time  was  an  international  character,  a  confidant  of 
diplomats  and  rulers.  Mr.  Smalley  had  made  his 
reputation  in  our  Civil  War  when  his  reports  were 
often  the  first  to  convey  to  Washington  the  news  o{ 
operations  in  the  field;  but  it  was  not  entirely  as  a 
newspaper  correspondent  that  Mr.  Smalley  gained 
his  reputation  —  he  was  a  critic  in  art,  music,  ana 
the  drama,  he  had  the  entree  of  the  highest  circles 
of  the  social  life  of  England,  was  the  confidant  of 
Gladstone  and  the  intimate  of  many  prominent 
men  on  the  Continent.  It  was  said  in  London,  if  one 
wished  to  find  the  American  Embassy,  it  would 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  175 

be  found  at  Mr.  Smalley's  house  in  Chester  Square. 

A  clock  in  the  distance  was  striking  eight,  as  Mr. 
Aldrich,  with  lighted  taper,  was  endeavoring  to  de 
cipher  under  which  of  the  two  bells  at  the  right  and 
left  of  the  door  would  be  inscribed,  "Visitors";  his 
imagination  had  conjured  up  with  appalling  horror 
what  the  result  might  be  if  he  should  ring  the  one 
under  which  "Servants"  was  inscribed. 

When  the  "Visitors"  bell  was  found,  and  rung, 
there  was  a  long  wait,  and  then  suddenly  a  most 
impressive  vision  greeted  our  waiting  eyes :  a  figure 
tall  and  imposing,  red  velvet  waistcoat,  flutter  of 
lace,  powdered  wig,  white  silk  stockings,  and  dia 
mond  buckles  on  his  black  shoes.  With  calm  and 
lordly  manner  he  allowed  his  eye  to  glance  over  the 
cowed  and  humble  subjects  who  waited  his  invita 
tion  to  enter  —  perhaps  he  had  overheard  the  muf 
fled  whisper  breathed  into  Mr.  Aldrich's  ear,  "  Is  it, 
oh,  is  it,  the  King!!" 

A  deft  and  pretty  maid  with  practised  art  took 
wraps  and  scarfs,  and  then  the  lordly  personage 
waved  us  towards  the  stairs.  At  the  landing  another 
royal  personage,  clothed  in  equally  regal  splendor, 
waved  us  forward,  announcing  in  stentorian  tones: 
"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aldrich."  It  was  a  large  square 
room,  or  so  it  seemed ;  at  the  end  was  an  open  grate 
lighted  by  one  piece  of  cannel  coal  which  burnt  with 
a  flickering  flame;  in  front  of  this  flame  stood  our 


1 76  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

host  and  hostess,  two  lads  in  black  Eton  jackets  and 
white  collars  (a  new  costume  to  our  eyes) ;  evidently 
some  misdemeanor  had  been  committed,  and  the 
case  was  under  severe  examination.  The  startled 
expression  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smalley  when  our  names 
were  called,  and  the  sudden  disappearance  of  the 
culprits,  whose  elimination  from  the  scene  was  much 
more  marvellous  than  the  vanishing  of  the  dis 
appearing  lady  we  had  seen  and  wondered  at  in 
"England's  Home  of  Mystery,"  at  a  Maskelyne  en 
tertainment  the  night  before.  An  inexpressible  some 
thing  in  the  atmosphere  made  us  conscious  that  in 
some  way  we  had  made  a  misstep,  a  social  error.  In 
our  ignorance  of  London  convention  we  had  arrived 
too  soon  (why  had  we  not  asked  Smith?)  —  not 
knowing  that  the  hour  given  for  dinner  meant  the 
hour  of  starting,  and  not  the  hour  for  arriving.  As 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smalley  moved  quickly  towards  us, 
one  glance  showed  how  true  had  been  Mr.  Aldrich's 
description  of  the  charming  personality.  The  same 
lithe,  slender  figure,  the  dark  hair  and  eyes,  the 
white  skin,  the  black  satin  gown  emphasizing  its 
beauty.  Her  only  ornaments  were  some  red  and 
yellow  tulips  worn  at  the  breast,  and  which  swayed 
and  trembled  at  her  breath,  as  a  lover  would.  With 
frank  and  winning  smile  she  spoke  the  words  of 
welcome,  and  as  Mr.  Aldrich  turned  to  Mr.  Smalley, 
with  caressing  touch  of  hand  she  said,  "I  am  so 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  177 

glad  you  wore  white."  The  words  in  themselves  were 
simple,  but  what  mysterious  and  unexplained  mean 
ing  did  they  have  to  the  one  who  spoke  them?  There 
was  time  for  a  few  moments'  pleasant  talk  with 
host  and  hostess  before  the  quiet  was  broken  in 
upon  by  the  stentorian  voice  at  the  door,  announc 
ing  Lord  and  Lady  ,  The  Right  Honorable 

Mrs. ,  Mr.  and  Mrs. ,  the  names  following 

hard  upon  each  other,  as  the  bearers  made  their 
formal  entrance  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  rapid  arrival  of  the  guests  gave  an  uninter 
rupted  moment  to  ask  Mr.  Aldrich  what  could  be 
the  unintelligible  meaning  of  the  words,  "I  am  so 
glad  you  wore  white."  And  also  to  say,  "How  lovely 
she  is.  How  can  you  bear  it?"  There  was  a  quick 
little  pressure  of  the  hand  that  lay  near  him,  as  he 
answered,  "By  grinding  my  teeth,  and  thinking  of 
the  twins."  For  the  moment  all  conversation  was 

suspended  by  the  call  of  Lady ,  and  the  breezy 

entrance  of  this  lady  of  quality  (one  of  the  ladies- 
in-waiting  of  the  Queen) .  She  wore  a  bright  peacock- 
blue  velvet  dress.  Her  entrance  was  met  by  a 
chorus  of  voices,  all  with  intonation  of  great  sur 
prise,  "Why,  Lady !"  She  made  a  little  rush 

for  shelter  towards  her  hostess,  whose  hand  she 
grasped  and  held  as  she  said:  "I  have  a  dreadful 
cold,  and  this  gown  was  the  only  one  I  possess  that 
was  not  very  decol!6t£,  and  I  could  not  have  come. 


1 78  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

anyway,  if  it  had  not  been  an  American  house." 
Then  the  hostess  of  the  American  house  lightly 
touched  her  cheek,  as  she  said:  "Your  dress  is  of  no 
consequence,  dear,  it  is  you,  yourself,  we  want.  We 
all  thank  you  for  coming." 

The  next  moment  a  voice  at  my  ear  said,  "Mr. 
Browning  begs  the  privilege  of  a  few  words  with 
Mrs.  Aldrich  before  we  go  to  dinner."  What  para 
lyzing,  unnerving  words.  Mr.  Browning  had  been 
the  God  of  my  girlish  idolatry.  Did  I  not  know  every 
word  of  his  "Men  and  Women,"  and  his  "Dra 
matis  Personae,"  by  heart?  Had  not  these  immortal 
books  come  a-wooing  with  my  lover,  and  had  we 
not  weighed  and  pondered  over  their  pages,  seeking 
to  pluck  out  the  heart  of  the  mystery  —  and  thought 
we  had,  at  least  to  our  own  satisfaction,  if  not  to 
those  to  whom  we  endeavored  to  expound  our  inter 
pretation?  And  had  ke  asked  to  speak  to  me!  I  felt 
I  should  "fall  at  his  feet,  and  adore." 

It  must  have  been  a  death-like  face  that  turned 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  But  with  the  first  glance 
the  knees,  that  had  involuntarily  bent,  stiffened, 
and  my  idol  fell  shattered  to  the  floor.  Rising  from 
its  place  stood  a  man  of  medium  height,  rather 
robust,  full  beard,  and  the  perfect  air  of  savoir-faire 
that  comes  only  to  the  man  of  society,  the  man  of 
the  world.  Nothing  in  his  appearance,  excepting 
the  white  hair,  proclaimed  the  poet.  He  was  fault- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  179 

lessly  dressed;  the  white  waistcoat,  the  galloon  on 
his  trousers,  all  were  of  the  dernier  cri.  The  diamond 
studs  at  his  breast  sparkled  and  twinkled  with  mis 
chievous  irony,  seeming  to  say:  "Ah,  simple  one, 
where  is  your  lost  Leader  now?  'Just  for  a  handful 
of  silver  he  left  us,  just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his 
coat.' "  But  more  disquieting  even  than  the  diamond 
studs  was  a  crush  hat,  which  Mr.  Browning  carried 
under  his  arm,  and  sat  upon  through  the  dinner. 
The  words  I  had  longed  to  say  —  all  the  things  I 
had  ached  to  say  —  vanished ;  tears  of  disappoint 
ment  were  in  very  slight  ambush  at  the  pretty 
nothings,  the  subtle  flatteries  of  the  poet's  talk. 
Mr.  Henry  James  has  said  of  Mr.  Browning:  "It 
was  not  easy  to  meet  him  without  some  resort  to 
the  supposition  that  he  had  mastered  the  secret  of 
dividing  the  personal  consciousness  into  a  pair  of 
independent  compartments.  The  man  of  the  world 
walked  abroad,  showed  himself,  talked,  and  did  his 
duty.  The  man  of  'Dramatic  Lyrics,'  of  'Men  and 
Women,'  of  'The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  of  'A  Blot  on 
the  'Scutcheon,'  of  'Pippa  Passes'  —  this  inscru 
table  personage  sat  at  home  and  knew,  as  well  he 
might,  in  what  quarters  of  that  sphere  to  look  for 
suitable  company." 

The  royal  custodian  of  the  door  announced  an 
other  name,  and  a  vision  in  white,  with  swaying, 
undulating  motion,  came  into  view.  The  white  robes 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 

enclosed  a  lady  "neither  fair  nor  young,"  but  her 
diamonds  flashed  and  burned  with  irradiate  light. 
The  lady  wore  at  the  waist  a  long  girdle  of  these 
precious  gems,  to  which  was  attached  a  slender 
ivory  fan.  Gently  swinging  the  open  fan  as  she 
passed  Mr.  Browning,  he  moved  towards  her,  and 
with  low  obeisance  said,  "How  lovely!  Je  vous  enfais 
mon  compliment."  Slowly  and  softly  as  the  murmur 
of  the  summer  wind  came  her  floating  answer,  "Yes, 
I  always  mourn  in  white." 

"  Come  into  my  parlor,  said  the  spider  to  the  fly, 
I  have  many  curious  things  to  show  you  when  you  are  there." 

The  fly  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  seeing  her  host 
near,  made  bold  to  ask,  "Please  tell  me  why  the 
men  and  women  here  to-night  speak  so  often  of  the 
clothes  they  wear?"  Mr.  Smalley  kindly  explained 
to  his  guest,  who  was  so  ignorant  of  the  etiquette  of 
polite  society,  that  the  Court  was  in  mourning  (why 
had  not  Smith  told  us?),  and  to  the  interrogation 
of  the  fly,  as  to  what  would  have  happened  if  by 
chance  its  dress  had  been  blue  or  yellow,  there  was 
no  answer  other  than  this,  "  I  see  by  Mrs.  Smalley's 
eye  she  is  waiting  for  me  to  lead  the  way  to  dinner  " ; 
and  as  we  were  (or  thought  we  were)  the  guests  of 
honor,  the  simple  fly  made  ready  to  take  the  ex 
pected  arm,  but  in  place  of  it  there  was  a  slight  bow 
and  smile,  as  the  arm  was  offered  to  the  peacock- 
blue  velvet  dress.  The  next  moment  a  tall,  slender 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  181 

man,  with  refined,  intellectual  face,  said,  "Mrs. 
Aldrich,  I  am  to  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  you  in 
to  dinner."  And  so  halfway  down  a  long  lane  of 
guests  we  descended  the  "winding  stair."  When  we 
had  found  our  places  at  the  table,  my  escort,  taking 
his  place  card,  said,  "Pray  let  this  be  my  intro 
duction."  The  name  written  on  the  card  was,  "Mr. 
Irving."  "Hamlet"  was  being  played  at  that  time, 
and  Mr.  Booth  had  asked  us  to  see  and  note  well 
Mr.  Irving's  conception  of  the  character,  and  how  it 
differed  from  his  own. 

Mr.  Irving  was  a  charming  comrade,  and  the  hour 
was  one  of  unalloyed  enjoyment,  with  the  exception 
of  one  antipathy  —  a  man  who  sat  diagonally  op 
posite,  and  would  talk  to  some  other  man  or  woman 
at  the  furthermost  end  of  the  long  table.  The  man 
talked  well,  and  all  the  table  listened,  excepting 
those  who  joined  in  the  discussion  —  arguing,  dis 
puting,  laughing.  In  the  middle  of  a  long  monologue, 
the  original  speaker  having  the  floor,  a  low  voice  at 
my  side  said,  "  Do  you  take  violent  dislikes  to  per 
sons  you  do  not  know?"  Then  a  pause.  "I  think 
you  do."  To  that  question,  the  only  answer  that 
could  be  made  were  the  immortal  lines: 

"I  do  not  like  thee,  Dr.  Fell." 

The  low  voice  continued:  "Perhaps  you  do  not 
know  the  aliases  of  Dr.  Fell.  It  is  Whistler.  You 
can  always  recognize  him  by  the  white  feather  — 


182  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

the  little  tuft  of  white  in  his  black  hair  —  the  white 
plume  of  which  Mr.  Whistler  is  very  proud." 

Of  the  enchanting  hour  with  Mr.  Irving,  aside 
from  its  gaiety  and  charm,  I  have  slight  memory, 
with  one  exception ;  but  so  definite  and  strong  is  that 
memory  that  a  mushroom  is  the  magic  wand  that 
robs  "Sir  Henry  "  of  his  later  glories,  and  brings  him 
back,  a  living  presence,  young  and  vibrant  with 
dreams,  aspirations,  ambitions  for  his  much-loved 
Art. 

The  menu  that  night  was  carefully  chosen.  One  of 
the  delectable  dishes  was  mushrooms,  cooked  in  some 
peculiar  manner  —  each  separate  mushroom  stood 
proudly  aloof  in  its  own  separate  bit  of  toast.  Mr. 
Irving  played  and  toyed  with  his,  until  I  declared 
he  was  a  sybarite  coquetting  with  his  pleasure, 
and  finely  suggested  the  vegetable  was  much  better 
warm  than  cold.  Then  Mr.  Irving,  with  half-melan 
choly  voice,  said:  "I  cannot  eat  it.  I  am  an  arrant 
coward.  In  other  things  of  life  I  dare  do  all  that  may 
become  a  man.  Liking  mushrooms  better  than  any 
other  food,  I  can  master  and  force  my  will  to  put 
the  tempter  into  my  mouth;  then  a  panic  forcibly 
takes  possession  of  me,  and  I  cannot  swallow  it. 
Having  been  placed  in  this  embarrassing  predica 
ment  many  times,  I  no  longer  play  with  fate." 

After  dinner,  when  the  men  returned  from  the 
"walnuts  and  wine,"  Mrs.  Smalley  pointed  to  an 


JAMES  McNEILL  WHISTLER 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  183 

empty  chair  near  by,  saying,  "Mr.  Whistler,  I  know 
you  want  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Aldrich."  If  Mr.  Whistler 
did,  it  must  have  been  subconscious,  for  outwardly 
he  gave  no  sign  of  that  desire.  Indifferently  he 
advanced,  and  after  a  cursory  glance,  said,  "  Mrs. 
Aldrich,  won't  you  come  over  to  the  bay  window 
where  we  will  be  more  away  from  the  world,  and  can 
talk?"  The  talk  became  at  once  a  monologue,  with 
Mr.  Whistler  and  the  women  who  desired  his  ac 
quaintance  the  subject-matter  of  his  discourse. There 
was  one  story  that  still  lives  in  memory.  A  beauti 
ful  lady,  who  in  meeting  Mr.  Whistler  always  said, 
"Ah,  Mr.  Whistler,  won't  you  come  and  see  me?" 
And  then  after  frequent  meetings  the  phraseology 
changed  to  "  Mr.  Whistler,  why  won't  you  come  and 
see  me?" 

On  a  certain  Sunday  Mr.  Whistler  was  bidden  to 
a  tea  given  by  a  dear  friend  who  lived  at  a  certain 
number  on  a  certain  road.  It  was  a  lovely  day,  and 
for  some  unknown  reason  Mr.  Whistler  had  an  hour 
or  two  disengaged  and  thought  he  would  utilize  it 
by  having  a  cup  of  tea  with  his  dear  friend  and  her 
dear  friends.  Strange  to  say,  although  his  friend  who 
gave  the  tea  was  his  dear  friend,  he  had  never  been  to 
her  house.  On  his  arrival  at  the  certain  number  and 
the  certain  street,  he  was  shown  by  the  lackey  in 
waiting  to  the  unoccupied  drawing-room  where  there 
was  no  visible  sign  of  tea  or  guests.  Soon  he  heard 


184  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

the  frou-frou  of  descending  skirts,  and  saw  the  lady 
of  the  entreaties  advancing  towards  him  with  out 
stretched  hands!  She  said,  "Oh,  Mr.  Whistler,  how 
good  of  you,  how  kind  of  you  to  come ! "  Turning  to 
his  listener,  Mr.  Whistler  said,  "  Mrs.  Aldrich,  I  did 
not  have  the  heart  to  tell  her  that  she  was  indebted 
for  the  call  to  my  mistake  in  the  number  of  a  house." 
It  is  uncertain  if  the  narrative  finished  here,  or  if 
there  was  a  sequel,  as  at  the  moment  Mr.  Aldrich 
brought  up  Mr.  Hughes,  giving  me  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  and  talking  with  "Tom  Brown  of  Rugby." 

At  the  appointed  hour,  Smith  sent  a  "four- 
wheeler"  for  us,  and  with  its  arrival  the  memorable 
evening  came  to  its  close ;  but  in  the  privacy  of  our 
own  apartment,  when  the  world  was  shut  out,  and 
our  world  shut  in,  Mr.  Aldrich  was  closely  ques 
tioned  —  if  he  was  sure,  quite,  quite  sure. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WITH  unwearied  interest  day  after  day  we 
sought  all  parts  of  the  great  city — the  dream 
city  of  our  youth.  Mr.  Henry  James,  in  speaking  of 
London  to  Mr.  Aldrich,  said,  "  It  is  the  heart  of  the 
world,  and  I  prefer  to  be  the  least  whit  in  its  whirl, 
than  to  live  and  own  a  territory  in  any  other  place." 
We  had  gone  up  and  down  the  Thames  on  the  ordi 
nary  river  boats,  with  the  incommensurate  crowd 
of  people,  "who  scarcely  allow  for  standing  room 
nor  so  much  as  a  breath  of  unappropriated  air." 
We  had  passed  the  Tower  with  its  turrets  and  battle 
ments,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  arched  entrance  of 
the  "Traitors'  Gate,"  through  which  so  many  un 
willing  souls  had  passed  on  the  way  to  heaven. 
Through  the  gray  gloom  of  the  English  sky  had 
seen  that  mighty  bubble  of  Saint  Paul's,  rising  out  of 
the  mass  of  innumerable  roofs  and  steeples.  Then 
"  Whitef riars "  of  unsavory  fame,  the  one-time 
sanctuary  and  refuge  of  profligates  and  sinners.  Ad 
joining  Whitefriars  we  had  seen  the  Temple  Gar 
dens,  where  the  partisans  of  the  Houses  of  York  and 
Lancaster  chose  the  red  and  the  white  rose  and  sent 

"...  between  the  red  rose  and  the  white 
A  thousand  souls  to  death  and  deadly  night." 


186  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

No  roses  are  blossoming  now  in  the  Gardens,  but  it 
is  still  rich  in  shrubbery  and  chrysanthemums,  the 
Temple's  special  flower. 

"At  the  temple  one  day,  Sherlock  taking  a  boat, 
The  waterman  asked  him,  'Which  way  will  you  float?' 

'Which  way?'  says  the  Doctor;  'Why  fool,  with  the  stream!' 
To  Saint  Paul's  or  to  Lambeth  was  all  one  to  him." 

And  so  like  this  Bishop  of  London  we  floated  with 
the  stream  until  we  made  our  moorage  at  Richmond, 
and  our  haven  at  "The  Star  and  Garter."  This  de 
lightfully  situated  hotel  overlooked  the  Thames, 
and  had  an  almost  unsurpassed  view  of  the  river. 

We  dined  that  night  in  state;  every  table  in  the 
large  dining-room  has  its  party  of  pleasure.  The 
laughter  and  the  champagne,  the  sparkling  ruby 
burgundy  that  glowed  with  the  silver  and  glass,  the 
gay  dresses  of  the  women,  the  soft  light  of  the  candles 
make  a  picture  that  lives  still  warm  in  memory.  The 
dinner  to  our  little  party  seemed  most  lavish  in  ex 
penditure.  It  was  our  first  experience  of  a  table  d'hdte, 
and  as  dish  after  dish,  cover  after  cover  was  pre 
sented,  gaily  we  enjoyed  it  all,  until  suddenly  a 
gloom  settled  on  the  table,  as  Mr.  Aldrich,  with 
anxious  expression,  said,  "I  have  only  two  pounds 
in  my  pocket,  and  I  fear  this  dinner  is  much  exceed 
ing  that  amount";  and  then  asked  of  the  other 
guest  the  amount  of  his  exchequer.  Unhappily  the 
guest's  treasury  proved  a  bagatelle,  a  trifle  of  shil- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  187 

lings  and  sixpences,  absolutely  inadequate  for  any 
material  help  towards  this  dinner  of  potentates  and 
princes.  With  this  condition  of  affairs  what  was  to 
be  done?  Would  any  explanation  satisfy  the  reigning 
monarch,  this  maitre  d' hotel,  for  our  lack  of  shekels, 
he  who  so  faithfully  had  hovered  about  our  table 
with  un  remittent  attention  to  our  comfort,  asking  at 
each  fresh  course,  "  Est-ce  que  Monsieur  et  Madame 
sont  bien  servis?"  " D6sirent-ils  autre  chose?"  With 
proper  pride  for  our  country  (for  were  we  not  Amer 
icans)  condescendingly  we  had  bowed  to  the  ques 
tion  and  answered,  "Tout  bien,  merci!"  And  must 
we  fall  from  this  high  estate! 

The  ruby  color  of  the  burgundy  faded,  the  jewelled 
twinkle  of  the  champagne  lost  its  glitter  to  our  eyes, 
as  we  discussed  the  ways  and  means  of  the  embar 
rassing  situation.  The  suggestion  of  the  guest  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aldrich  would  stay  at  the  hotel  for  the 
night,  while  he  would  be  the  Mercury  to  bring  the 
ducats  and  relief  in  the  morning,  met  with  scant 
favor.  The  decision  was  ultimately  made  that  the 
situation  should  be  explained,  and  that  watches, 
brooches,  rings  could,  if  necessary,  be  left  as  security, 
although  it  was  doubtful  if  their  value  would  equal 
the  cost  of  the  royal  repast  of  "The  Star  and  Garter." 
Unanimously  it  was  agreed,  to  "Let  Care,  the  beg 
gar,  wait  outside  the  gate,"  and  with  this  agreement 
the  twinkle  again  brightened  in  the  champagne,  and 


i88  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

the  color  returned  to  the  ruby  wine,  and  the  soft 
voice  of  the  maUre  d 'hotel  still  asked,  "Monsieur  et 
Madame  sont  bien  servis?" 

As  a  gay  party  of  "  Lords  and  Ladies"  entered  the 
room,  the  maUre  d'hotel,  followed  by  several  of  his 
pages,  hurried  to  a  round  table,  where  a  large  silver 
epergne  filled  with  rare  fruit  and  flowers  had  been 
the  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes.  The  merry  party 
were  soon  seated,  the  attendant  had  bowed  lowly, 
the  iced  wines  in  their  silver  coolers  were  being 
placed,  when,  to  the  great  surprise  of  one  of  the 
insolvent  debtors,  Mr.  Aldrich,  rising  hastily,  ap 
proached  with  outstretched  hands  and  enthusiastic 
manner  these  merrymakers,  and  greeted  with  genial 
cordiality  the  apparent  giver  of  the  feast.  The  pro 
cedure  was  so  at  variance  with  Mr.  Aldrich 's  usual 
modesty  and  reluctance  to  intrude,  that  the  one 
who  knew  him  best  sat  in  amazed  silence.  There  were 
introductions  and  a  few  moments  of  friendly  chat, 
and  then  Mr.  Aldrich  returned  to  the  two,  who  with 
excited  curiosity  waited  his  coming.  "Our  mauvais 
quart  d'heure  is  over,"  he  said;  "we  are  saved."  The 
involuntary  perspective  resuscitator  was  that  ad 
venturous  journalist,  George  Augustus  Sala,  the 
special  correspondent  of  the  London  newspapers  — 
the  cosmopolitan,  equally  at  home  in  all  parts  of  the 
civilized  world.  Mr.  Sala  came  to  our  country  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Civil  War.  The  London  "Daily 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  189 

Telegraph"  had  offered  him  a  thousand  pounds  for 
a  six  months'  tour,  in  the  course  of  which  he  was  to 
write  two  letters  a  week  for  the  "  Daily  Telegraph." 
Mr.  Aldrich's  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Sala  was 
slight.  He  had  dined  with  him  at  Mr.  Lorimer  Gra 
ham's,  and  also  at  Delmonico's,  when  Mr.  Sala 
was  the  guest  of  Mr.  Manton  Marble,  the  edi 
tor  of  the  New  York  "World,"  and  Mr.  William 
Henry  Hurlburt,  the  brilliant  "leader  writer"  of 
that  paper. 

At  this  meeting  at  "The  Star  and  Garter"  all 
confidence  was  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Sala.  Mr.  Aldrich 
was  as  dumb  to  his  monetary  affairs,  his  financial  em 
barrassment,  as  if  he  were  the  Egyptian  Sphinx,  but 
he  had  now  cast  an  anchor  to  the  windward  should 
his  frail  bark  drift  too  near  to  coral  reefs.  Mr.  Sala 
said  he  was  in  London  incog.,  as  it  were ;  that  from 
the  time  Dona  Isabella  had  abdicated  in  favor  of  her 
son,  Don  Alfonso,  he  had  been  in  Spain  as  special 
correspondent  for  the  "Illustrated  London  News," 
and  that  he  had  left  his  post  for  a  couple  of  days 
only,  and  was  returning  to  Spain  that  night.  After 
this  meeting  with  Mr.  Sala,  where  Mr.  Aldrich  had 
made  his  first  (and  his  last)  appearance  as  a  poli 
tic  person,  the  little  dinner  went  gaily  onward  until 
the  last  dish  was  served,  and  the  coffee  and  cigars 
brought,  and  with  them  the  small  note  with  its  dis 
turbing  hieroglyphics,  laid  face  downward  by  Mr. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Aldrich's  plate.  Not  until  the  maitre  d'hotel  vanished 

was  the  paper  turned;  it  read: 

i 

The  Star  &  Garter  Hotel 

Richmond,  Surrey 
Dinners  £14 
Wine          15 

Carried  forward  £i  4  15        Total  £1.19 

All  the  days  in  London  were  a  new  revelation,  a 
fresh  delight.  We  strolled  through  the  thronged 
streets  without  any  definite  object  but  the  inter 
est  and  glow  of  the  old  names  —  Ludgate  Hill, 
the  Strand,  Fleet  Street,  Temple  Bar,  Cheap- 
side.  The  roar  of  the  city,  the  bustling  spectacle 
of  human  life,  had  for  us  such  fascination  and  at 
traction  that  we  felt  as  Hawthorne  did  about  leav 
ing  England,  "that  it  seems  a  cold  and  shivering 
thing  to  go  anywhere  else,"  but  our  destination  was 
Rome,  and  summer  would  outspeed  us  unless  we 
hastened. 

The  short  stay  at  Chester  had  increased  our  de 
sire  to  visit  other  cathedral  towns.  The  date  of  de 
parture  was  set,  and  the  plan  made,  when  en  route 
for  Paris,  to  stop  for  the  night  at  Canterbury.  When 
the  day  of  exile  came,  "Smith  with  smileless  face 
handed  us  our  parcels  again,  and  stood  statuesque 
on  the  doorstep  with  one  finger  lifted  to  his  fore 
head  in  decorous  salute,"  as  he  gave  the  order,  "Vic 
toria  Station."  Our  desire  was  great  to  see  the  cathe- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  191 

dral  with  the  almost  unequalled  windows  of  the  thir 
teenth  century,  and  the  crypts,  which  were  said  to 
be  the  finest  in  England. 

It  was  at  Canterbury  that  we  made  out  first  ac 
quaintance  with  the  English  provincial  inn,  so  im 
maculate  as  seen  from  the  outside,  with  the  window- 
boxes  of  gay  flowers  and  the  shimmer  of  polished 
brass;  but  when  the  wayfarer  had  crossed  the  thresh 
old  and  inhaled  the  scent,  the  stuffy  scent,  of  carpets 
and  of  drapery  that  has  hung  unwashed  and  un 
disturbed  for  possible  centuries,  one  wonders  why 
anything  even  so  remotely  suggestive  of  water  was 
chosen  for  the  name  of  this  Inn  —  "The  Fountains." 
The  major-domo,  who  acts  as  master  of  the  house, 
seemed,  like  Pooh  Bah  of  "Mikado"  fame,  to  be 
all  men  in  one :  head  waiter,  business  manager,  boots, 
and  chambermaid.  This  composite  official  is  always 
clothed  in  much-worn  and  shiny  evening  dress, 
marked  with  stains  and  spots  of  past  ages.  He  holds 
in  his  hands  his  wand  of  office,  a  towel,  which  is 
neither  unblemished  nor  pure.  Its  use  is  various; 
to  wipe  the  knives  and  forks,  the  plates  and  glasses, 
as  he  hands  them  to  you,  or  to  dust  the  chairs  or  your 
boots. 

The  multitudinous  personage  ushered  us  into  a 
large  bedroom  on  the  second  floor,  filled  with  beau 
tiful  old  mahogany  chests  of  drawers,  wardrobes, 
tables,  chairs.  After  our  first  bird's-eye  view  of  these 


192  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

splendors,  our  vision  concentrated  itself  on  the  won 
derfully  carved  high  post  bedstead,  with  its  canopy, 
quilt,  and  curtains  of  cardinal  red  wool.  The  three 
steps  that  led  up  to  its  downy  billows  were  also  a 
new  wonder  to  our  eyes.  The  floor  of  the  room  was  cov 
ered  with  a  thick  carpet  of  undistinguishable  color, 
of  unsymmetrical  design.  Through  the  years  that  it 
had  lain  there  undisturbed  so  many  different  liquids 
and  solids  had  been  allowed  to  flow  over  it,  taking  no 
definite  form,  that  it  was  now  impossible  to  tell  if 
the  involved  pattern  was  the  result  of  weave  or  the 
careless  hand  of  man,  so  artfully  had  time  blended 
them  together  —  "and  smelt  so!" 

Our  first  walk  in  this  ancient  city  was  to  the  chem 
ist,  to  procure  all  the  disinfectants  known  to  modern 
science,  and  with  them  we  added  one  more  design  to 
the  floor  covering,  which  had  more  evidence  for  than 
against  the  belief  that  it  was  probably  made  by  the 
Protestant  exiles  from  Flanders  and  France,  when  in 
1561  Queen  Elizabeth  permitted  them  to  set  up  their 
looms  in  the  crypt  of  this  cathedral. 

It  was  not  until  the  small  hours  of  the  night  that 
Morpheus  enticed  us  to  his  arms.  All  the  early  hours 
were  given  to  the  difficult  matter  of  covering  the 
inner  surface  of  the  red  wool  curtains  that  draped 
the  carven  couch  with  towels,  pocket  handkerchiefs, 
bureau  scarfs,  and  every  white  washable  thing  that 
came  within  our  reach,  in  order  that  the  dust  of  cen- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  193 

tunes  should  not  stifle  us  before  the  morning  dawned. 

The  next  day,  unrefreshed  from  our  perilous  slum 
ber,  we  took  the  train  for  Dover,  had  our  first  sight 
of  the  chalk  hills,  and  our  first  practical  knowledge, 
gained  by  experience,  of  the  misbehaved  and  most 
mischievous  Channel. 

All  things  come  to  an  end,  and  although  the  pas 
sage  had  been  less  than  two  hours,  time  had  multi 
plied  itself  in  passing.  At  last  the  heavy  throb  of  the 
engine  ceased,  and  we  were  in  Calais,  and  for  the  first 
time  heard  French  (but  not  our  French)  spoken  all 
about  us.  However,  our  French  did  well  enough  to 
procure  us  "deux  demi-tasses  et  deux  petits  verres 
de  cognac,"  and  also  we  were  able  to  say  when  we 
saw  it  in  danger,  "Ayez  soin  de  mon  carton  a 
chapeaux!" 

A  delightful  car-ride  through  the  beautiful  coun 
try,  and  then  Paris,  and  the  Hotel  Meurice  on  the  rue 
de  Rivoli,  where  a  perfect  dinner  and  charming  suite 
of  rooms  in  the  entresol  looking  on  the  Tuileries 
Gardens  awaited  our  coming.  Mr.  Aldrich  so  aptly 
describes  our  environment  in  one  of  his  papers 
"From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth"  that  I  copy  it: 

"One  raw  April  night,  after  a  stormy  passage  from 
Dover  to  Calais  and  a  cheerless  railroad  ride  thence 
to  Paris,  when  the  wanderers  arrived  at  the  rue  de 
Rivoli  they  found  such  exquisite  preparation  for 
their  coming  as  seemed  to  have  been  made  by  well- 


194  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

known  gentle  hands  reaching  across  the  Atlantic. 
In  a  small  salon  adjoining  the  parlor  assigned  to  the 
party,  the  wax  candles  threw  a  soft  light  over  the 
glass  and  silver  appointments  of  a  table  spread  for 
their  repast.  A  waiter  arranging  a  dish  of  fruit  at  the 
buffet  greeted  them  with  a  good-evening,  as  if  he 
had  been  their  servitor  for  years,  instead  of  now  lay 
ing  eyes  upon  them  for  the  first  time.  In  the  open 
chimney-place  of  the  parlor  was  a  wood-fire  blazing 
cheerfully  on  the  backs  of  a  couple  of  brass  grifnns 
who  did  not  seem  to  mind  it.  On  the  mantelpiece 
was  an  antique  clock,  flanked  by  bronze  candlesticks 
that  would  have  taken  your  heart  in  a  bric-a-brac 
shop.  Beyond  this  were  the  sleeping  apartments, 
in  the  centre  of  one  of  which  stood  the  neatest  of 
femmes  de  chambre,  with  the  demurest  of  dark  eyes, 
and  the  pinkest  of  ribbons  on  her  cap.  On  a  toilet- 
table  under  a  draped  mirror  was  a  slender  vase  of 
Bohemian  glass  holding  two  or  three  fresh  tea-roses. 
What  beau  of  the  old  regime  had  slipped  out  of  his 
sculptured  tomb  to  pay  madame  that  gallantry?" 

Paris  is  a  paradise  in  the  early  spring;  the  young 
grass  is  like  velvet  and  every  imaginable  shade  of 
green  lies  before  one's  eyes.  In  the  blossoming  of 
trees  and  shrubs  all  nature  seems  alive  —  a  flush,  a 
glow,  freshness  and  fulness  of  bloom.  What  a  pano 
rama  of  happy  days  unrolls  to  my  vision !  Memory 
becomes  a  pantograph  bringing  back  again  the  sweet 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  195 

spring  days,  the  blue  skies,  the  warm  and  lovely 
sunshine,  the  great  branches  of  lilacs  and  roses  sold 
at  every  corner.  The  life  of  the  streets  is  so  gay  and 
cheering  that  one  must  perforce  catch  the  spirit  of 
the  flying  sunbeams  and  the  mood  and  tempera 
ment  of  the  people.  Unfortunately  for  us,  however, 
there  was  a  slight  cloud  in  our  skies  —  the  French 
language  proved  itself  "the  fly  in  the  ointment,"  the 
vexatious  thorn  on  the  rose. 

Before  coming  to  Paris  Mr.  Aldrich  had  taken  the 
optimistic  view  that  as  he  read  French  with  the  same 
fluency  as  he  read  English,  there  could  be  but  little 
difficulty  in  both  speaking  and  understanding  that 
language,  and  was  totally  unprepared  for  his  precipi 
tous  fall  when  he  realized,  when  surrounded  by 
French  voices,  that  he  was  both  deaf  and  mute  to 
the  speech  about  him. 

Mr.  Aldrich  was  so  irritated  by  his  restriction  of 
free  speech  that  it  was  some  time  before  he  would 
consent  to  have  any  light  thrown  on  his  gloomy  twi 
light.  Our  ignorance  of  French  as  spoken  by  the  na 
tive  was  not  only  tiresome  but  expensive,  as  we 
found  when  we  were  an  hour  driving  about  Paris 
in  our  endeavor  to  locate  the  H6tel  Bristol ;  our  mis 
chance  had  named  it  "Bristol,"  instead  of  "Bristall.  ' 
Although  Mr.  Aldrich  could  always  correctly  write 
our  desires  and  destination,  it  was  often  as  difficult 
for  the  driver  to  decipher  our  English  writing  as  to 


196  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

understand  our  Franco-American  words.  After  suf 
fering  a  few  days  in  this  Stygian  darkness,  Mr.  Al- 
drich  applied  to  Galignani  for  a  teacher  of  French. 
In  answer  to  the  summons  a  spinster  lady  of  uncer 
tain  summers  found  her  way  to  our  sitting-room  in 
entresol,  and  with  formal  authority  the  lessons  in 
French  pronunciation  began.  This  mistress  of  French 
brought  with  her  a  small  book  entitled : 

Le  Petit  Precepteur 

or 
First  Step  to  French  Conversation 

by 
F.  Grandineau 

Late  French  Master  to  Her  Most  Gracious  Majesty 

Queen  Victoria.     Author  of  Conversations  familieres 

a  I'  usage  des  jeunes  demoiselles. 

With  Her  Most  Gracious  Majesty  for  a  sponsor,  we 
felt  that  there  could  be  "no  offence  in  it,"  and  that 
perhaps  "Le  Petit  Precepteur"  might  be  the  one 
book  in  the  French  tongue  which  the  mothers  of 
"des  jeunes  demoiselles"  could  safely  allow  their 
daughters  to  read  —  a  French  lady  having  told  us 
that  it  was  the  misfortune  of  their  literature  that 
there  were  no  books  by  distinguished  authors  that 
would  be  permissible  for  the  young  girl  to  peruse. 

For  a  week  or  more  the  inane  lines  of  "Le  Petit 
Precepteur"  were  well  spoken,  "with  good  accent 
and  good  discretion,"  when  unexpectedly  out  of  a 
clear  sky  the  revolt  came. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  197 

I  have  pinched  my  fingers. 

She  has  knocked  her  head. 

He  has  dirtied  his  coat. 

The  eye  is  stopped  up. 

I  am  so  fond  of  monkeys. 

You  have  torn  little  Louise's  pantalet. 

With  these  lines  "Le  Petit  Pr£cepteur"  was  closed 
with  a  sudden  bang,  and  with  the  bang  French  pro 
nunciation  was  consigned  forever  to  Hades. 

Soon  after  our  arrival  in  Paris,  Mr.  Aldrich  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  Madame  Th6rese  de  Solins 
Blanc,  better  known  by  her  pen-name,  "Th.  Bent- 
zon."  Madame  Blanc  had  translated  and  published, 
in  the  "Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  "Marjorie 
Daw,"  "Mademoiselle  Olympe  Zabriski,"  "Pere 
Antoine's  Date  Palm,"  and  several  others  of  Mr. 
Aldrich 's  short  stories.  Madame  Blanc  was  a  writer 
of  distinction,  and  of  rare  personal  charm.  She  was 
the  stepdaughter  of  Comte  d'Aure,  who  was  equerry 
to  Napoleon  III.  Comte  d'Aure  introduced  the  young 
writer  to  George  Sand,  and  through  this  friendship 
Madame  Blanc  owed  the  position  (which  she  held 
for  many  years)  on  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes." 
Madame  Blanc's  novels,  especially  "Tony,"  "Con 
stance,"  and  "Un  Remords,"  are  far  beyond  the 
average,  and  were  crowned  by  the  French  Academy, 
the  highest  honor  to  which  a  French  writer  can 
aspire.  Madame  Blanc  brought,  on  her  ceremonial 
first  visit,  a  beautifully  painted  small  porcelain  in  the 


igg  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

shape  of  a  heart,  which  she  presented  to  her  hostess 
with  the  charming  phrase  and  gracious  manner  of 
the  old  regime,  asking  that  the  quaintly  carved  gold 
necklace  laid  inside  the  box  might  sometimes  be 
worn,  and  by  wearing  bring  a  remembrance  of  the 
giver,  who  saw  now  that "  no  trinket  of  jewel  or  gold 
could  add  to  the  grace  and  charm  of  the  wearer." 

"The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 
And  love  to  hear  them  told." 

Very  delightful  is  the  memory  of  an  exquisite  din 
ner  the  Comtesse  d'Aure  gave  in  our  honor,  with  its 
shadowy  glimpse  of  what  the  social  world,  the  Court 
society,  must  have  meant  in  the  days  when  an  Em 
peror  and  Empress  ruled  over  France. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WITH  the  dinner  which  had  given  us  such  a 
pleasing  insight  of  the  intimate  interior  and 
charm  of  a  true  French  home,  our  stay  in  the  beau 
tiful  city  ended,  for  spring  in  the  Campagna,  with 
the  larks  and  anemones,  called  and  drew  us  with 
insidious  claim. 

The  route  from  Paris  to  Lyons  led  through  the 
lovely  valley  of  the  Seine.  The  entire  district  through 
which  we  passed  was  for  many  miles  covered  with 
grapevines,  the  grass  by  the  roadside  was  green 
and  fresh,  and  the  air  full  of  pleasant  earthy  odors. 
Among  the  flowering  shrubs  the  clematis  and  red 
poppy  bloomed  along  the  hedges,  and  over  it  all 
were  the  purple  light  and  shadows  that  lie  upon  the 
distant  hills. 

"We  cannot  dream  too  much  of  France." 

From  Lyons  our  flight  was  through  Marseilles  to 
Nice,  and  then  on  to  that  Garden  of  Eden,  Monaco, 
that  petty  principality  which  is  set  like  a  gem  be 
tween  its  snow-topped  mountains,  the  rich  green 
foliage,  the  blue  sea,  the  blue  sky,  and  the  red  rocks 
rising  so  abruptly. 

We  had  dejeuner  at  the  Beau  Sejour,  noted  for  its 
fastidious  cuisine,  then  followed  the  enchanting  walk 


200  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

up  the  winding  avenue,  through  the  tropical  gardens 
filled  with  palm,  lemon,  and  every  other  kind  of  tree, 
the  beds  of  heliotrope,  roses,  and  violets  making  the 
air  heavy  with  the  delicious  perfume  of  flowers.  In 
this  way  we  came  to  the  doors  of  that  sinful  paradise, 
Monte  Carlo. 

In  the  sumptuous  apartments  of  the  salles  de  jeu 
the  six  green  tables  were  surrounded  by  men  and 
women  of  all  ages  and  estates,  watching  with  vivid 
interest  the  turning  of  the  roulette. 

Mr.  Aldrich  placed  on  one  of  the  green  tables  a 
twenty-franc  piece  and  played  at  "  Rouge  et  Noir." 
With  a  joyous  unconcern,  and  a  gay  little  nod  to  the 
croupier  as  he  staked  his  napoleon,  he  said,  "Suc 
cess  to  it.  Vive  le  Roi."  The  adjuration  was  heard 
by  the  fickle  goddess  who  watches  over  this  alluring 
game,  for  when,  after  a  few  turns  of  the  roulette,  the 
napoleon  returned  to  the  hand  that  gave  it,  it 
brought  with  it  many  followers  —  gold  enough  to 
buy  a  string  of  lapis-lazuli  beads  and  a  cross  of  topaz. 
The  next  day  (one  of  the  party  proudly  clothed  in 
these  wages  of  sin)  our  flight  continued  over  the 
Cornice  Road  to  Genoa.  From  Genoa  through  the 
forty  tunnels  to  Pisa.  So  frequent  are  these  galleries 
and  tunnels  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  this  extra 
ordinary  rock  roughness,  in  shaping  of  timber  and 
stone,  was  the  work  of  the  sea  and  the  storm. 

At  Pisa  we  saw  within  its  few  acres  the  four  build- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  201 

ings,  "so  fortunate  in  their  solitude  and  their  so 
ciety,"  the  Cathedral,  the  Campo  Santo,  the  Bap 
tistry,  and  the  Leaning  Tower. 

The  next  day's  journey  brought  us  to  Rome.  We 
slept  that  night  in  the  Hotel  de  Russie,  in  the  Piazza 
del  Popolo.  "Redde,  Diana,  diem."  (Bring  back,  O 
Diana,  the  day.)  For  the  next  busy  weeks  "there 
were  visits  to  the  Catacombs  and  the  Baths  of  Cara- 
calla,  and  excursions  to  the  Campagna  —  at  this 
time  of  year  a  vast  red  sea  of  poppies  strewn  with 
the  wrecks  of  ancient  tombs;  we  had  breathed  the 
musky  air  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  and  the  Ba 
silica  San  Paolo ;  we  had  burrowed  under  the  Eternal 
City  in  crypt  and  dungeon,  and  gazed  down  upon  it 
from  the  dizzy  Lantern  of  Saint  Peter's.  The  blight 
ing  summer  was  at  hand;  the  phantasmal  malaria 
was  stalking  the  Campagna  at  night:  it  was  time 
to  go.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  in  Rome 
unless  we  paid  a  visit  to  a  Certain  Old  Gentleman. 

Mr.  Aldrich,  in  his  papers  "From  Ponkapog  to 
Pesth,"  has  told  the  story  so  charmingly  that  I  shall 
place  it  here  and  let  it  be  a  twice-told  tale : 

"It  was  only  after  the  gravest  consideration  that 
we  decided  to  visit  a  Certain  Old  Gentleman.  There 
were  so  many  points  to  be  considered.  It  was  by 
no  means  certain  that  a  Certain  Old  Gentleman 
wanted  us  to  visit  him.  Though  we  knew  him,  in  a 
vague  way,  to  be  sure  —  through  friends  of  ours 


202  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

who  were  friends  of  his  —  he  did  not  know  us  at  all. 
Then  he  was,  according  to  report,  a  very  particular 
old  gentleman,  standing  squarely  on  his  dignity,  and 
so  hedged  about  by  conventional  ideas  of  social  eti 
quette,  so  difficult  of  approach,  and  so  nearly  impos 
sible  to  become  acquainted  with  when  approached, 
that  it  was  an  audacious  thing  seriously  to  contem 
plate  dropping  in  on  him  familiarly.  .  .  . 

"  It  comes  back  to  me  like  the  reminiscence  of  a 
dream,  rather  than  as  the  memory  of  an  actual  ex 
perience,  that  May  afternoon  when  the  purpose 
first  unfolded  itself  to  us.  We  were  sitting  in  the  fad 
ing  glow  of  the  day  on  the  last  of  the  four  marble 
steps  which  linked  our  parlor  to  the  fairy-like  garden 
of  the  Albergo  di  Russia  in  the  Via  Babuino.  Our 
rooms  were  on  the  ground-floor,  and  this  garden, 
shut  in  on  three  sides  by  the  main  building  and  the 
wings  of  the  hotel,  and  closed  at  the  rear  by  the  Pin- 
cian  Hill,  up  which  the  garden  clambered  halfway 
in  three  or  four  luxuriant  terraces,  seemed  naturally 
to  belong  to  our  suite  of  apartments.  All  night  we 
could  hear  the  drip  of  the  fountain  among  the  cactus 
leaves,  and  catch  at  intervals  the  fragrance  of 
orange-blooms,  blown  in  at  the  one  window  we 
dared  leave  open.  It  was  here  we  took  the  morning 
air  a  few  minutes  before  breakfast;  it  was  on  these 
steps  we  smoked  our  cigar  after  the  wonders  of  the 
day  were  done.  We  had  the  garden  quite  to  ourselves, 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  2^ 

\J 

for  the  cautious  tourist  had  long  since  taken  wing 
from  Rome,  frightened  by  the  early  advance  of  sum 
mer.  The  great  caravansary  was  nearly  empty. 
Aside  from  the  lizards,  I  do  not  recollect  seeing  any 
living  creature  in  that  garden  during  our  stay,  ex 
cept  a  little  frowsy  wad  of  a  dog,  which  dashed  into 
our  premises  one  morning,  and  seizing  on  a  large  piece 
of  sponge  made  off  with  it  up  the  Pincian  Hill.  If  that 
sponge  fell  to  the  lot  of  some  time-encrusted  Roman- 
ese,  and  Providence  was  merciful  enough  to  inspire 
him  with  a  conception  of  its  proper  use,  it  cannot 
be  said  of  the  little  Skye  terrier  that  he  lived  in  vain. 

"This  was  our  second  sojourn  in  Rome,  and  we 
had  spent  two  industrious  weeks,  picking  up  the 
threads  of  the  Past,  dropped  temporarily  in  April 
in  order  to  run  down  and  explore  Naples  before 
Southern  Italy  became  too  hot  to  hold  us.  ...  There 
was  nothing  more  to  be  done  in  Rome  unless  we  did 
the  Roman  fever  —  nothing  but  that,  indeed,  if  we 
were  not  inclined  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  Certain  Old 
Gentleman.  This  alternative  appeared  to  have  so 
many  advantages  over  the  Roman  fever  that  it  at 
once  took  the  shape  of  an  irresistible  temptation.  .  .  . 

"Though  the  discussion  did  not  end  here  that  May 
evening  on  the  steps  of  the  hotel-garden,  it  ends  here 
in  my  record;  it  being  sufficient  for  the  reader  to 
know  that  we  then  and  there  resolved  to  undertake 
the  visit  in  Question.  The  scribe  of  the  party  dis- 


204  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

patched  a  note  to  Signer  V expressing  a  desire 

to  pay  our  respects  to  his  venerable  friend  before 
we  left  town,  and  begging  that  an  early  day,  if  any, 

be  appointed  for  the  interview.  Signer  V was  an 

Italian  acquaintance  of  ours  who  carried  a  diplomatic 
key  that  fitted  almost  any  lock. 

"We  breakfasted  betimes,  the  next  morning,  and 

sat  lingering  over  our  coffee,  awaiting  Signer  V 's 

reply  to  our  note.  The  reply  had  so  impressive  an  air 
of  not  coming,  that  we  fell  to  planning  an  excursion 
to  Tivoli,  and  had  ordered  a  carriage  to  that  end, 
when  Stefano  appeared,  bearing  an  envelope  on  his 
silver-plated  waiter.  (I  think  Stefano  was  born  with 
that  waiter  in  his  hand ;  he  never  laid  it  down  for  a 
moment;  if  any  duty  obliged  him  to  use  both  hands, 
he  clapped  the  waiter  under  his  arm  or  between  his 
knees;  I  used  to  fancy  that  it  was  attached  to  his 
body  by  some  mysterious,  invisible  ligament,  the 
severing  of  which  would  have  caused  his  instant  dis 
solution.)  Signor  V advised  us  that  his  venerable 

friend  would  be  gracious  enough  to  receive  us  that 
very  day  at  one  half-hour  after  noon.  In  a  post 
script  the  signer  intimated  that  the  gentlemen  would 
be  expected  to  wear  evening  dress,  minus  gloves,  and 
that  it  was  imperative  on  the  part  of  Madama  to  be 
costumed  completely  in  black  and  to  wear  only  a 
black  veil  on  her  hair.  Such  was  one  of  the  whims  of 
a  Certain  Old  Gentleman. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  205 

"Here  a  dilemma  arose.  Among  Madama's  ward 
robe  there  was  no  costume  of  this  lugubrious  de 
scription.  The  nearest  approach  to  it  was  a  statu 
esque  black  robe,  elaborately  looped  and  covered 
with  agreeable  arabesques  of  turquoise-blue  silk. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  rip  off  these  celestial 
trimmings,  and  they  were  ripped  off,  though  it  went 
against  the  woman-heart.  Poor,  vain  little  silk  dress, 
that  had  never  been  worn,  what  swift  retribution 
overtook  you  for  being  nothing  but  artistic,  and 
graceful,  and  lovely,  and  —  Parisian,  which  includes 
all  blessed  adjectives! 

"From  the  bottom  of  a  trunk  in  which  they  had 

lain  since  we  left  London,  H and  I  exhumed  our 

dress-coats.  Though  perfectly  new  (like  their  amiable 
sister,  the  black  silk  gown) ,  they  came  out  looking  re 
markably  aged.  They  had  inexplicable  bulges  in  the 
back,  as  if  they  had  been  worn  by  somebody  with  six 
or  eight  shoulder-blades,  and  were  covered  all  over 
in  front  with  minute  wrinkles,  recalling  the  famous 
portrait  of  the  late  Mr.  Parr  in  his  hundred  and 
fiftieth  year.  H—  -  and  I  got  into  our  creased  ele 
gance  with  not  more  intemperate  comment  than 
might  be  pardoned,  and  repaired  to  the  parlor,  where 
we  found  Madama  arranging  a  voluminous  veil  of 
inky  crape  over  her  hair,  and  regarding  herself  in 
a  full-length  mirror  with  gloomy  satisfaction.  The 
carriage  was  at  the  porte  cochere,  and  we  departed, 


206  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

stealing  silently  through  the  deserted  hotel  corridor, 
and  looking  for  all  the  world,  I  imagine,  like  a  couple 
of  rascally  undertakers  making  off  with  a  nun.  .  .  . 

"  Notwithstanding  our  deliberations  over  the  mat 
ter  at  the  hotel,  I  think  I  had  not  fully  realized 
that  in  proposing  to  visit  a  Certain  Old  Gentleman 
we  were  proposing  to  visit  the  Pope  of  Rome.  The 
proposition  had  seemed  all  along  like  a  piece  of  mild 
pleasantry,  as  if  one  should  say,  '  I  think  I  '11  drop 
round  on  Titus  Flavius  in  the  course  of  the  fore 
noon,'  or  '  I  Ve  half  a  mind  to  look  in  on  Cicero  and 
Pompey,  and  see  how  they  feel  this  morning  after 
their  little  dissipation  last  night  at  the  villa  of  Lu- 
cullus.'  The  Pope  of  Rome  —  not  the  Pope  regnant, 
but  the  Pope  of  Rome  in  the  abstract  —  had  up  to 
that  hour  presented  himself  to  my  mental  eye  as 
an  august  spectacular  figure-head,  belonging  to  no 
particular  period,  who  might  turn  out  after  all  to 
be  an  ingenious  historical  fiction  perpetrated  by  the 
same  humorist  that  invented  Pocahontas.  The  Pope 
of  Rome !  —  he  had  been  as  vague  to  me  as  Adam 
and  as  improbable  as  Noah. 

"But  there  stood  Signer  V at  the  carriage- 
step,  waiting  to  conduct  us  into  the  Vatican,  and 
there,  on  either  side  of  the  portals  at  the  head  of  the 
massive  staircase,  lounged  two  of  the  papal  guard 
in  that  jack-of-diamonds  costume  which  Michael 
Angelo  designed  for  them  —  in  the  way  of  a  prac- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  207 

tical  joke,  I  fancy.  They  held  halberds  in  their 
hands,  these  mediaeval  gentlemen,  and  it  was  a 
mercy  they  did  n't  chop  us  to  pieces  as  we  passed 
between  them.  What  an  absurd  uniform  for  a  man- 
at-arms  of  the  nineteenth  century!  These  fellows, 
clad  in  rainbow,  suggested  a  pair  of  harlequins  out 
of  a  Christmas  pantomime.  Farther  on  we  came  to 
more  stone  staircase,  and  more  stupid  papal  guard 
with  melodramatic  battle-axes,  and  were  finally 
ushered  into  a  vast,  high-studded  chamber  at  the 
end  of  a  much-stuccoed  corridor. 

"Coming  as  we  did  out  of  the  blinding  sunshine, 
this  chamber  seemed  to  us  at  first  but  a  gloomy 
cavern.  It  was  so  poorly  lighted  by  numerous  large 
windows  on  the  western  side  that  several  seconds 
elapsed  before  we  could  see  anything  distinctly.  One 
or  two  additional  windows  would  have  made  it 
quite  dark.  At  the  end  of  the  apartment,  near  the 
door  at  which  we  had  entered,  was  a  dais  with  three 
tawdry  rococo  gilt  armchairs,  having  for  back 
ground  an  enormous  painting  of  the  Virgin,  but  by 
what  master  I  was  unable  to  make  out.  The  draper 
ies  of  the  room  were  of  some  heavy  dark  stuff,  a 
green  rep,  if  I  remember,  and  the  floor  was  covered 
with  a  thick  carpet  through  which  the  solid  stone 
flagging  beneath  repelled  the  pressure  of  your  foot. 
There  was  a  singular  absence  of  color  everywhere, 
of  that  mosaic  work  and  Renaissance  gilding  with 


208  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

which  the  eyes  soon  become  good  friends  in  Italy. 
The  frescoes  of  the  ceiling,  if  there  were  any  fres 
coes,  were  in  some  shy  neutral  tint,  and  did  not 
introduce  themselves  to  us.  On  the  right,  at  the 
other  extremity  of  the  room,  was  a  double  door, 
which  led,  as  we  were  correct  in  supposing,  to  the 
private  apartments  of  the  Pope. 

"Presently  our  eyes  grew  reconciled  to  the  semi- 
twilight,  which  seemed  to  have  been  transported 
hither  with  a  faint  spicy  odor  of  incense  from  some 
ancient  basilica  —  a  proper  enough  light  for  an 
audience-chamber  in  the  Vatican.  Fixed  against  the 
wall  on  either  side,  and  extending  nearly  the  entire 
length  of  the  room,  was  a  broad  settee,  the  greater 
part  of  which  was  already  occupied  when  we  entered. 

"A  cynic  has  observed  that  all  cats  are  gray  in 
the  twilight.  He  said  cats,  but  meant  women.  I  am 
convinced  that  all  women  are  not  alike  in  a  black 
silk  dress,  very  simply  trimmed  and  with  no  color 
about  it  except  a  white  rose  at  the  corsage.  There 
are  women  —  perhaps  not  too  many — whose  beauty 
is  heightened  by  an  austere  toilette.  Such  a  one  was 
the  lady  opposite  me,  with  her  veil  twisted  under 
her  chin  and  falling  negligently  over  the  left  shoul 
der.  The  beauty  of  her  face  flashed  out  like  a  dia 
mond  from  its  sombre  setting.  She  had  the  brightest 
of  dark  eyes,  with  such  a  thick,  long  fringe  of  dark 
eyelashes  that  her  whole  countenance  turned  into 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  209 

night  when  she  drooped  her  eyelids ;  when  she  lifted 
them,  it  was  morning  again.  As  if  to  show  us  what 
might  be  done  in  the  matter  of  contrasts,  nature 
had  given  this  lady  some  newly  coined  Roman  gold 
for  hair.  I  think  Eve  was  that  way  —  both  blonde 
and  brunette.  My  vis-ci-vis  would  have  been  gracious 
in  any  costume,  but  I  am  positive  that  nothing 
would  have  gone  so  well  with  her  as  the  black  silk 
dress,  fitting  closely  to  the  pliant  bust  and  not  losing 
a  single  line  or  curve.  As  she  sat,  turned  three  quar 
ters  face,  the  window  behind  her  threw  the  outlines 
of  her  slender  figure  into  sharp  relief.  The  lady  her 
self  was  perfectly  well  aware  of  it. 

"Next  to  this  charming  person  was  a  substantial 
English  matron,  who  wore  her  hair  done  up  in  a 
kind  of  turret,  and  looked  like  a  lithograph  of  a 
distant  view  of  Windsor  Castle.  She  sat  bolt  up 
right,  and  formed,  if  I  may  say  so;  the  initial  letter 
of  a  long  line  of  fascinatingly  ugly  women.  Imagine 
a  row  of  Sphinxes  in  deep  mourning.  It  would  have 
been  an  unbroken  line  of  feminine  severity,  but  for 
a  handsome  young  priest  with  a  strikingly  spiritual 
face,  who  came  in,  like  a  happy  word  in  parenthesis, 
halfway  down  the  row.  I  soon  exhausted  the  re 
sources  of  this  part  of  the  room ;  my  eyes  went  back 
to  the  Italian  lady  so  prettily  framed  in  the  em 
brasure  of  the  window,  and  would  have  lingered 
there  had  I  not  got  interested  in  an  old  gentleman 


2io  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

seated  on  my  left.  When  he  came  into  the  room, 
blinking  his  kindly  blue  eyes  and  rubbing  his  hands 
noiselessly  together  and  beaming  benevolently  on 
everybody,  just  as  if  he  were  expected,  I  fell  in  love 
with  him.  His  fragile,  aristocratic  hands  appeared 
to  have  been  done  up  by  the  same  blanchis sense  who 
did  his  linen,  which  was  as  white  and  crisp  as  an 
Alpine  snow-drift,  as  were  also  two  wintry  strands 
of  hair  artfully  trained  over  either  ear.  Otherwise  he 
was  as  bald  and  shiny  as  a  glacier.  He  seated  himself 
with  an  old-fashioned,  courteous  bow  to  the  com 
pany  assembled,  and  a  protesting  wave  of  the  hand, 
as  if  to  say,  'Good  people,  I  pray  you,  do  not  disturb 
yourselves,'  and  made  all  that  side  of  the  room 
bright  with  his  smiling.  He  looked  so  clean  and 
sweet,  just  such  a  wholesome  figure  as  one  would 
like  to  have  at  one's  fireside  as  grandfather,  that  I 
began  formulating  the  wish  that  I  might,  thirty  or 
forty  years  hence,  be  taken  for  his  twin  brother; 
when  a  neighbor  of  his  created  a  disturbance. 

"This  neighbor  was  a  young  Italian  lady  or  gen 
tleman  —  I  cannot  affirm  which  —  of  perhaps  ten 
months'  existence,  who  up  to  the  present  time  had 
been  asleep  in  the  arms  of  its  bonne.  Awakening  sud 
denly,  the  bambino  had  given  vent  to  the  shrillest 
shrieks,  impelled  thereto  by  the  strangeness  of  the 
surrounding  features,  or  perhaps  by  some  conscien 
tious  scruples  about  being  in  the  Vatican.  I  picked 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  211 

out  the  mother  at  once  by  the  worried  expression 
that  flew  to  the  countenance  of  a  lady  near  me,  and 
in  a  gentleman  who  instantly  assumed  an  air  of 
having  no  connection  whatever  with  the  baleful  in 
fant,  I  detected  the  father.  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  seen  a  stronger  instance  of  youthful  depravity 
and  duplicity  than  that  lemon-colored  child  afforded. 
The  moment  the  nurse  walked  with  it,  it  sunk  into 
the  sweetest  of  slumber,  and  peace  settled  upon  its 
little  nose  like  a  drowsy  bee  upon  the  petal  of  a 
flower;  but  the  instant  the  bonne  made  a  motion  to 
sit  down,  it  broke  forth  again.  I  do  not  know  what 
ultimately  befell  the  vocal  goblin;  possibly  it  was 
collared  by  the  lieutenant  of  the  guard  outside,  and 
thrown  into  the  deepest  dungeon  of  the  palace;  at 
all  events  it  disappeared  after  the  announcement 
that  his  Holiness  would  be  with  us  shortly.  What 
ever  virtues  Pius  IX  possessed,  punctuality  was  not 
one  of  them,  for  he  had  kept  us  waiting  three  quar 
ters  of  an  hour,  and  we  had  still  another  fifteen 
minutes  to  wait. 

"The  monotonous  hum  of  conversation  hushed 
itself  abruptly,  the  two  sections  of  the  wide  door  I 
have  mentioned  were  thrown  open,  and  the  Pope, 
surrounded  by  his  cardinals  and  a  number  of  foreign 
princes,  entered.  The  occupants  of  the  two  long 
settees  rose,  and  then,  as  if  they  were  automata 
worked  by  the  same  tyrannical  wire,  sunk  simulta- 


212  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

neously  into  an  attitude  of  devotion.  For  an  instant 
I  was  seized  with  a  desperate  desire  not  to  kneel. 
There  is  something  in  an  American  knee,  when  it  is 
rightly  constructed,  that  makes  it  an  awkward  thing 
to  kneel  with  before  any  man  born  of  woman.  Per 
haps,  if  the  choice  were  left  one,  either  to  prostrate 
one's  self  before  a  certain  person  or  be  shot,  one 
might  make  a  point  of  it  —  and  be  shot.  But  that 
was  not  the  alternative  in  the  present  case.  And 
so  I  slid  softly  down  with  the  rest  of  the  miserable 
sinners.  I  was  in  the  very  act,  when  I  was  chilled  to 
the  marrow  by  catching  a  sidelong  glimpse  of  my 
benign  old  gentleman  placidly  leaning  back  in  his 
seat,  with  his  hands  folded  over  his  well-filled  waist 
coat  and  that  same  benevolent  smile  petrified  on  his 
countenance.  He  was  fast  asleep. 

"Immediately  a  tall,  cadaverous  person  in  a 
scant,  funereal  garment  emerged  from  somewhere, 
and  touched  the  sleeper  on  the  shoulder.  The  old 
gentleman  unclosed  his  eyes  slowly  and  with  diffi 
culty,  and  was  so  far  from  taking  in  the  situation 
that  he  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  shake  hands  with  the 
tall,  cadaverous  person.  Then  it  all  flashed  upon  the 
dear  old  boy,  and  he  dropped  to  his  knees  with  so 
comical  and  despairing  an  air  of  contrition  that  the 
presence  of  forty  thousand  popes  would  not  have 
prevented  me  from  laughing. 

"All  eyes  were  now  turned  toward  the  Pope  and 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  213 

his  suite,  and  this  trifling  episode  passed  unnoticed 
save  by  two  or  three  individuals  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood,  who  succeeded  in  swallowing  their 
smiles,  but  did  not  dare  glance  at  each  other  aft 
erwards.  The  Pope  advanced  to  the  centre  of  the 
upper  end  of  the  room,  leaning  heavily  on  his  ivory- 
handled  cane,  the  princes  in  black  and  the  cardinals 
in  scarlet  standing  behind  him  in  picturesque  groups, 
like  the  chorus  in  an  opera.  Indeed,  it  was  all  like 
a  scene  on  the  stage.  There  was  something  pre 
meditated  and  spectacular  about  it,  as  if  these  per 
sons  had  been  engaged  for  the  occasion.  Several  of 
the  princes  were  Russian,  with  names  quite  well 
adapted  to  not  being  remembered.  Among  the  Ital 
ian  gentlemen  was  Cardinal  Nobli  Vatteleschi  —  he 
was  not  a  cardinal  then,  by  the  way  —  who  died 
not  long  ago. 

"Within  whispering  distance  of  the  Pope  stood 
Cardinal  Antonelli  —  a  man  who  would  not  escape 
observation  in  any  assembly  of  notable  personages. 
If  the  Inquisition  should  be  revived  in  its  early 
genial  form,  and  the  reader  should  fall  into  its 
hands  —  as  would  very  likely  be  the  case,  if  a  branch 
office  were  established  in  this  country  —  he  would 
feel  scarcely  comfortable  if  his  chief  inquisitor  had 
so  cold  and  subtle  a  countenance  as  Giacome 
Antonelli's. 

"It  was  a  pleasure  to  turn  from  the  impassible 


214  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

prime  minister  to  the  gentle  and  altogether  inter 
esting  figure  of  his  august  master,  with  his  small, 
sparkling  eyes,  remarkably  piercing  when  he  looked 
at  you  point-blank,  and  a  smile  none  the  less  win 
some  that  it  lighted  up  a  mouth  denoting  unusual 
force  of  will.  His  face  was  not  at  all  the  face  of  a 
man  who  had  passed  nearly  half  a  century  in  ardu 
ous  diplomatic  and  ecclesiastical  labors ;  it  was  cer 
tainly  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  led  a  temperate, 
blameless  private  life,  in  noble  contrast  to  many 
of  his  profligate  predecessors,  whom  the  world  was 
only  too  glad  to  have  snugly  stowed  away  in  their 
gorgeous  porphyry  coffins  with  a  marble  mistress 
carved  atop. 

"After  pausing  a  moment  or  two  in  the  middle  of 
the  chamber,  and  taking  a  bird's-eye  glance  at  his 
guests,  the  Pope  began  his  rounds.  Assigned  to  each 
group  of  five  or  ten  persons  was  an  official  who  pre 
sented  the  visitors  by  name,  indicating  their  nation 
ality,  station,  etc.  So  far  as  the  nationality  was 
involved,  that  portion  of  the  introduction  was  ob 
viously  superfluous,  for  the  Pope  singled  out  his 
countrymen  at  a  glance,  and  at  once  addressed  them 
in  Italian,  scarcely  waiting  for  the  master  of  cere 
monies  to  perform  his  duties.  To  foreigners  his 
Holiness  spoke  in  French.  After  a  few  words  of  sal 
utation  he  gave  his  hand  to  each  person,  who 
touched  it  with  his  lips  or  his  forehead,  or  simply 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  215 

retained  it  an  instant.  It  was  a  deathly  cold  hand, 
on  the  forefinger  of  which  was  a  great  seal  ring  bear 
ing  a  mottled  gray  stone  that  seemed  frozen.  As  the 
Pope  moved  slowly  along,  devotees  caught  at  the 
hem  of  his  robe  and  pressed  it  to  their  lips,  and  in 
most  instances  bowed  down  and  kissed  his  feet.  I 
suppose  it  was  only  by  years  of  practice  that  his 
Holiness  was  able  to  avoid  stepping  on  a  nose  here 
and  there. 

"  It  came  our  turn  at  last.  As  he  approached  us  he 
said,  with  a  smile,  'Ah,  I  see  you  are  Americans.' 

Signer  V then  presented  us  formally,  and  the 

Pope  was  kind  enough  to  say  to  us  what  he  had 
probably  said  to  twenty  thousand  other  Americans 
in  the  course  of  several  hundred  similar  occasions. 

"His  Holiness  then  addressed  to  his  guests  the 
neatest  of  farewells,  delivered  in  enviable  French, 
in  which  he  wished  a  prosperous  voyage  to  those 
pilgrims  whose  homes  lay  beyond  the  sea,  and  a 
happy  return  to  all.  When  he  touched,  as  he  did 
briefly,  on  the  misfortunes  of  the  church,  an  ador 
able  fire  came  into  his  eyes ;  fifty  of  his  eighty- three 
winters  slipped  from  him  as  if  by  enchantment,  and 
for  a  few  seconds  he  stood  forth  in  the  prime  of  life. 
He  spoke  some  five  or  seven  minutes,  and  nothing 
could  have  been  more  dignified  and  graceful  than 
the  matter  and  manner  of  his  words.  The  benedic 
tion  was  followed  by  a  general  rustle  and  movement 


216  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

among  the  princes  and  eminenze  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room;  the  double  door  opened  softly,  and 
closed  —  and  that  was  the  last  the  Pope  saw  of  us." 
There  was  still  one  more  visit  to  be  made  before 
we  set  off  upon  our  northern  flight  —  to  stand  again 
by  the  tomb  that  held  the  heart  of  Shelley,  to  bend 
the  knee  at  the  grave  of  Keats. 

"Within  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramid 
Of  Caius  Cestius  was  this  daisy  found, 
White  as  the  soul  of  Keats  in  Paradise. 
The  pansy  —  there  were  hundreds  of  them,  hid 
In  the  thick  grass  that  folded  Shelley's  mound, 
Guarding  his  ashes  with  most  lovely  eyes." 

This  visit  paid,  with  a  homesick  sinking  of  the 
heart  we  drank  our  last  bottle  of  Lacrima  Christi, 
loosened  the  cords  that  bound  us  to  the  Eternal 
City,  and  turned  our  faces  eastwards  as  far  as 
Vienna  and  Budapest;  went  along  the  Thone,  and 
spent  the  summer  in  the  cathedral  towns  of  Eng 
land  until  September,  when  we  gladly  embarked  on 
the  Cunard  ship  Scythia  for  home  and  the  jocund 
sprites,  whose  letters  of  recall  met  us  at  Liverpool. 

"Dear  Mama 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  learn  in  Sunday  school 
this  is  a  little  I  learn 

"a  little  sparrow  cannot 
fall  unnoticed  lord  by 
thee  and  though  I 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  217 


am  so  young  and 
small  thou  dost  take 
care  of  me 

"I  cannot  write  any  longer  good  by 

from  your  Dear 

"Talbot." 


JLruL 


2i8  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

"Dear  Papa 

"We  are  all  well. 

Talbot  is  playing  his  fiddle  I  want  a  fiddle  I  will  ex 
pect  a  fiddle  when  you  come  home 
"from  your  loving 

"Charley  F.  Aldrich." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

VICTOR  HUGO'S  famous  line  —  "Depart  with 
a  tear,  enter  with  a  smile"  —  well  expressed 
the  tenor  of  our  minds  as  we  set  sail  from  Queens- 
town,  homeward-bound.  The  waiting  hearts  and  the 
bright  eyes  of  the  jocund  sprites  were  the  beacon 
lights  in  our  ocean  highway,  deadening  the  cruelties 
of  the  implacable  seas  that  made  the  rolling  ships 
of  that  day  an  abiding-place  of  misery. 

In  answer  to  a  note  of  welcome  from  Mr.  Stedman 
soon  after  his  arrival,  Mr.  Aldrich  wrote: 

"I  have  had  a  very  rich  six  months.  I  am  quite 
certain  that  whatever  I  do  in  future  will  bear  the 
impress  of  that  wider  experience.  I  had  to  laugh 
over  the  cutting  you  enclosed  from  the  Rev.  Tal- 
mage's  paper  —  the  idea  of  my  being,  even  in 
directly,  of  any  assistance  to  a  'Christian  at  work/ 
gave  me  a  curious  and  novel  sensation  of  unexpected 
usefulness!" 

Mark  Twain's  cordial  letter  of  welcome  ended, 

f      X^X/*  . 

"God  knows  we  are  glad  to  have  you  back,  but 
don't  talk!"  To  Mr.  Fields,  Mr.  Aldrich  wrote,  "We 
enjoyed  keenly  every  moment,  and  I  have  come 
back  chockful  of  mental  intaglios  and  Venetian 
glass  and  literary  bric-a-brac  generally." 


220  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

The  pomegranate  seed  of  recollected  travel  which 
first  bore  flower  was  the  lovely  imaginative  story  of 
the  "Bambino  d'Ara  Cceli."  The  summer  afternoon 
passed  in  this  ancient  church  is  still  so  vivid  that 
I  almost  hear  again  Mr.  Aldrich's  voice.  As  we  sit 
under  the  golden  ceiling,  the  faint  perfume  of  in 
cense  about  us,  Mr.  Aldrich  with  magic  touch 
brings  to  my  vision  the  world  of  people  that  crowded 
this  vast  and  solemn  space  —  the  triumphal  pro 
cession  of  emperors  and  generals,  senators  and  idlers, 
priests  and  monks,  all  took  shape  again,  and  from 
the  Sacristy,  on  flights  of  prayer,  the  holy  Bambino 
floated  on  celestial  wings. 

"  How  it  comes  back,  that  hour  in  June 
When  just  to  exist  was  joy  enough. 
I  can  see  the  olives,  silvery  gray, 
The  carven  masonry,  rich  with  stains, 
The  gothic  windows  and  lead-set  panes, 
The  flag-paved  cortile,  the  convent  gates." 

Leaving  the  church,  we  walked  to  the  fountain  of 
Trevi  for  a  parting  draught  of  this  precious  water, 
for  the  tradition  is  still  believed  that  to  partake  of 
its  glistening  drops  insures  the  traveller's  return  to 
Rome.  There  is  scarcely  a  busier  scene  in  Rome  than 
the  neighborhood  of  this  fountain.  As  we  stood  for 
a  moment  and  watched  the  wandering  traffic,  a 
sudden  silence  fell  as  old  men,  young  men,  women 
and  children  dropped  to  their  knees  as  a  procession 
of  priests  came  in  view,  carrying  on  a  raised  dais 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  221 

the  miraculous  Bambino,  to  work  its  miracle  at  the 
bedside  of  the  sick  and  dying.  Devout  peasants  and 
others  not  so  devout  always  kneel  as  the  Blessed 
Infant  passes,  swathed  in  its  white  dress  encrusted 
with  diamonds  and  rubies,  with  which  the  brands 
plucked  from  the  burning  have  endowed  the  little 
black  figure  of  wood.  The  veneration  and  awe,  the 
adoring  love  portrayed  on  the  faces  of  those  who 
knelt  gave  Mr.  Aldrich  the  motif  for  the  poem  which 
he  wrote  soon  after  his  return. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ARA  OELI 

Whoever  will  go  to  Rome  may  see 
In  the  Chapel  of  the  Sacristy 
Of  Ara  Co3li,  the  Sainted  Child  — 
Garnished  from  throat  to  foot  with  rings 
And  brooches  and  precious  offerings. 

It  has  its  minions  to  come  and  go, 
Its  perfumed  chamber,  remote  and  still, 
Its  silken  couch  and  its  jewelled  throne, 
And  a  special  carriage  of  its  own 
To  take  the  air  in,  when  it  will ; 

Often  some  princess,  brown  and  tall, 
Comes,  and  unclasping  from  her  arm 
The  glittering  bracelet,  leaves  it,  warm 
With  her  throbbing  pulse,  at  the  Baby's  feet. 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Howells,  Mr.  Aldrich  writes 
of  this  narrative  poem:  "The  bare  story  I  know  is 
lovely  and  sufficient.  Of  the  art  I  cannot  judge  now. 


222  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

I  took  the  greatest  pleasure  in  writing  it,  and  my 
savage  critic  says  she  thinks  it  'the  best  poem  I 
have  ever  written  —  or  will  write.'  I  hope  she  is  a 
good  judge  and  no  prophetess!" 

The  two  years  following  the  home-coming  were 
uneventful  of  incidents,  Mr.  Aldrich  returning  with 
fresh  interest  to  his  poems  and  sketches.  The  sum 
mers  were  passed  at  Lynn  Terrace,  the  winters  di 
vided  between  Boston  and  Ponkapog,  with  occa 
sional  visits  to  New  York,  that  city  still  holding  the 
old-time  habit  of  its  citizens  condensing  the  formal 
and  social  calls  of  the  coming  year  into  the  one  day 
—  "New  Year's  Day."  The  custom  of  paying  visits 
was  so  universal  that  months  beforehand,  unless  one 
chose  to  walk,  carriages  must  be  engaged,  the  price 
of  which  was  often  as  high  as  fifty  dollars  for  a  few 
hours.  The  ladies  in  receiving  wore  their  prettiest 
dresses  and  choicest  smiles,  all  keeping  notebooks  in 
which  the  number  of  calls  was  marked,  and  serious 
was  the  rivalry  between  the  houses  of  Montague 
and  Capulet  as  to  which,  at  the  end  of  the  day, 
could  show  the  larger  plurality  of  names.  Banks  and 
offices  were  closed,  the  day  being  given  over  to  this 
social  function.  Each  house  had  its  table  of  generous 
viands,  a  punch  was  brewed,  and  for  special  guests 
champagne  corks  flew  with  generous  prodigality. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stedman  invited  Mr.  Aldrich  to  come 
to  New  York  for  this  day  and  share  in  the  pleasure 


ALDRICH  AT  LYNX  TERRACE 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  223 

of  meeting  their  mutual  friends.  Mrs.  Stedman  un 
fortunately  did  not  always  rise  to  the  heights  on 
which  her  husband  stood.  She  was,  however,  a  most 
kind  and  loyal  friend,  who  answered  truly  and  with 
plain  speaking  that  was  the  antithesis  of  Mr.  Sted- 
man's  tact.  I  remember  well  on  this  occasion  the 
ruthful  and  perplexed  expression  of  a  caller's  face 
as  he  said,  in  making  his  adieux,  "  I  am  taking  flight; 
I  am  out  of  my  element,  out  of  my  place  even  in 
breathing  the  air  among  so  many  distinguished  men 
as  I  have  left  in  the  other  room."  The  reply  must  at 
least  have  been  unexpected  to  the  speaker:  "Oh, 
you  must  not  mind  that,  Mr.  Blank,  for  we  really 
do  know  many  persons  who  are  not  distinguished ! ! !" 

Another  amusing  memory  of  the  day  is  of  Mr. 
Edgar  Fawcett,  a  young  poet  who  was  much  in 
evidence,  and  who  took  himself  very  seriously,  and 
the  introduction  to  him  of  a  typical  New  York 
banker,  or  bishop,  perhaps,  who  said,  "Ah,  Mr. 
Fawcett,  Mr.  Edgar  Fawcett?  I  remember  seeing 
your  name  in  the  corners  of  newspapers,  attached 
to  poems,  pretty  little  poems,  too,  I  thought  them." 
Said  Mr.  Fawcett,  with  becoming  humility,  "Oh, 
they  are  small  flights,  not  worth  speaking  about." 
Thereupon  the  banker,  or  bishop,  touched  him 
encouragingly  on  the  shoulder,  saying,  "Oh,  well, 
never  mind,  you  will  likely  do  better  next  time." 

In  a  letter  written  to  Mr.  Stedman  in  1878  Mr. 


224  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Aldrich  writes:  "  I  have  had  a  wholly  delightful  and 
nearly  idle  summer  at  Swampscott,  and  am  now 
back  again  among  the  Blue  Hills  and  hard  at  work. 
Am  three  chapters  deep  in  a  novel  of  different  cast 
from  any  fiction  I  have  attempted  lately  —  tragedy 
this  time  —  I  am  going  to  get  my  humor  a  set  of 
sables."  The  end  of  the  year  was  much  saddened  by 
the  death  of  Mr.  Taylor.  In  November,  Mr.  Aldrich 
had  written  Mr.  Stedman,  "I  have  a  presentiment 
he  will  never  return."  On  December  20,  Mr.  Aldrich 
writes  again  to  Mr.  Stedman:  "I  cannot  speak  or 
write  about  it.  It  gave  me  such  a  shock  in  the  soli 
tude  here.  It  was  at  the  supper-table  last  night.  I 
was  laughing  as  I  unfolded  'The  Tribune,'  and  then 
I  read, '  Bayard  Taylor  dead.1  I  shall  be  in  New  York 
all  day  on  the  yth  of  January.  We  sail  on  the  8th  on 
the  Abyssinia,  and  I  want  a  quiet  half-hour's  talk 
with  you  somewhere,  if  it  can  be  arranged."  The 
lure  of  the  glistering  drops  of  the  fountain  of  Trevi 
had  worked  their  charm  and  proved  the  tradition 
true,  that  those  who  drink  of  its  waters  will  return. 

Mr.  Aldrich  sailed  for  Europe  the  first  week  of  the 
New  Year,  1879.  And  although  "our  bark  was  ready, 
the  winds  were  not  fair."  The  Abyssinia  was  obliged 
to  anchor  for  the  night,  making  until  noon  of  the  next 
day  the  meagre  distance  of  thirty-seven  miles.  We 
arrived  at  Liverpool  on  the  eleventh  day  from  New 
York.  The  memory  of  the  blazing  wood  fire  that 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  225 

greeted  us  in  the  large  hall  of  the  North- Western 
Hotel  burns  still  in  memory  as  brightly  as  on  that 
unforgettable  night  when  to  be  again  on  land  was  a 
foretaste  of  heaven.  Spain  was  the  objective  point 
of  the  journey: 

"  Behind  me  lie  the  idle  life  and  vain, 

The  task  unfinished  and  the  weary  hours! 
The  long  wave  softly  bears  me  back  to  Spain 
And  the  Alhambra's  towers." 

London  was  bitterly  cold  and  cheerless  with  its 
fogs,  Paris  little  better.  We  hurried  on,  making  short 
stops  at  Orleans,  Blois,  Angers,  Nantes,  Bordeaux, 
Paris,  Biarritz  to  Bayonne,  where  we  saw  the  ad 
vertisements  hung  up  in  the  hotels  of  approaching 
bull-fights,  and  knew  by  this  that  the  boundary  line 
was  all  that  separated  us  from  the  country  of  ro 
mance,  of  troubadours,  of  feathery  palms  and  tall 
cypresses,  fountains,  rich  Moorish  gateways  and 
palaces,  Moorish  domes  so  light  they  seem  but  rest 
ing  clouds: 

"  Place  of  forgotten  kings, 

With  fountains  that  never  play, 
And  gardens  where  day  by  day 
The  lonely  cicada  sings. 

"Traces  are  everywhere 

Of  the  dusky  race  that  came 
And  passed  like  a  sudden  flame, 
Leaving  their  sighs  in  the  air!" 

We  entered  Spain  at  Irun,  the  western  extremity 


226  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

of  the  Pyrenees,  arriving  late  in  the  evening  at 
Burgos,  and  wasting  most  of  the  night  in  trying  to 
persuade  the  proprietor  of  the  Fonda  del  Norte  to 
procure  for  our  beds  some  fresh  linen.  There  were  no 
sheets  or  blankets.  The  covering  of  the  beds  con 
sisted  of  huge  cushions  or  beds,  encased  in  a  bag 
that  once  was  white,  but  from  age  and  usage  had 
ceased  to  have  any  definite  color  and  was  a  mixture 
of  all  combined. 

The  old  city  of  Burgos  was  founded  in  the  ninth 
century  as  a  protection  against  the  Moors.  It  was 
the  capital  of  Castile  until  Charles  V  made  Madrid 
the  metropolis.  Madrid  had  for  Mr.  Aldrich  a  double 
pleasure  —  the  treasures  of  the  galleries  and  the  re 
newed  friendship  with  Mr.  Lowell,  who  had  been 
appointed  Minister  to  Spain  the  year  before.  In 
Mr.  Greenslet's  most  interesting  book,  "James  Rus 
sell  Lowell,  His  Life  and  Work,"  he  quotes  a  let 
ter  written  to  Thomas  Hughes,  which  is  so  in  the 
spirit  of  what  Mr.  Lowell  said  to  Mr.  Aldrich,  that 
I  copy  it: 

"  I  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe  at  first!  All  alone,  with 
out  a  human  being  I  had  ever  seen  before  in  my  life, 
and  with  unaccustomed  duties,  feeling  as  if  I  were 
beset  with  snares  on  every  hand,  obliged  to  carry  on 
the  greater  part  of  my  business  in  a  strange  tongue 
—  it  was  rather  trying  for  a  man  with  so  sympathetic 
and  sensitive  a  temperament  as  mine,  and  I  don't 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  227 

much  wonder  the  gout  came  upon  me  like  an  armed 
man." 

In  memory  I  can  see  Mr.  Lowell  standing  with 
his  hand  on  a  chair,  and  the  mischievous  twinkle  in 
his  brown  eyes  as  he  said :  ' '  Think  of  the  ridiculous 
situation.  I,  who  thought  of  myself  as  one  fully  pro 
ficient  and  skilled  in  the  Spanish  language,  knew 
so  little  of  its  colloquial  form  that  when  a  man  came 
into  my  office  I  did  not  know  how  to  ask  him  to  take 
a  chair  and  sit  down."  Then  with  a  deeper  twinkle 
of  the  eye,  he  added  —  "I  could  have  asked  him  in 
old  Spanish,  though,  and  had  the  advantage."  Mr. 
Lowell  was  very  amusing  in  speaking  of  his  experi 
ence  with  ex-President  Grant.  Mr.  Lowell  said  that, 
when  he  was  still  baffled  with  his  unaccustomed  du 
ties  and  hedged  about  with  the  rigidity  of  Spanish 
etiquette,  word  was  sent  to  him  that  General  Grant, 
accompanied  by  his  wife  and  son,  were  to  visit  Ma 
drid.  The  question  as  to  what  dignity  or  form  in  his 
reception  should  be  conceded  to  General  Grant  had 
given  most  of  the  European  Cabinets  much  tribula 
tion.  Spain  averted  the  embarrassing  situation  by 
deciding  that  General  Grant  should  be  received  as 
a  great  Commander.  A  large  dinner  was  given  to 
General  Grant,  but  after  the  long  lapse  of  years  it  es 
capes  my  memory  if  the  American  Minister  was  the 
host  of  that  evening,  or  the  Spanish  Government. 
But  the  twinkling  eye  does  not  escape  my  memory, 


228  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

as  Mr.  Lowell  told  of  his  amusement  and  great  satis 
faction  in  the  perfect  attitude  of  Mrs.  Grant,  who  was 
seated  between  two  diplomats,  a  Frenchman  and  a 
Spaniard.  Mr.  Lowell  said  Mrs.  Grant  did  not  speak 
either  French  or  Spanish,  but  there  was  not  an  inter 
val  during  that  dinner  in  which  she  was  not  listen 
ing,  apparently  with  rapt  attention,  or  replying,  with 
continuous  conversation,  to  their  uncomprehended 
remarks.  Mr.  Lowell  said,  "I  don't  know  what  she 
was  saying,  it  may  have  been  the  Lord's  Prayer,  or 
Longfellow's  poem  'Excelsior,'  or  the  Declaration 
of  Independence ;  but  to  the  guests  at  the  table  she 
gave  the  pleasant  appearance  of  being  delightfully 
entertained  and  entertaining."  The  two  diplomats 
proved  equal  to  the  occasion,  and  the  complaisant 
triangle  of  three  diplomats  moved  smoothly  on  to 
the  end  of  the  dinner. 

In  one  of  Mr.  Aldrich's  papers  in  "From  Ponka- 
pog  to  Pesth,"  he  writes  of  this  year's  journey: 

"A  visit  to  Tangier  was  not  down  in  my  itinerary 
at  all,  but  on  reaching  Gibraltar  after  prolonged  wan 
dering  through  the  interior  of  Spain,  Africa  threw 
itself  in  my  way,  so  to  speak,  and  I  have  a  rare  ad 
vantage  over  everybody  who  has  ever  visited  that 
country  and  written  about  it.  I  remained  there  only 
one  day  —  the  standpoint  from  which  I  view  the 
Dark  Continent  is  thus  unique.  .  .  ." 

Leaving  Africa,  "the  spirit  in  our  feet"  led  us  to 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  229 

Malaga,  Granada,  Cartagena,  Almeria,  Alicante, 
Valencia,  Tarragona,  and  Barcelona,  where  we  left 
Spain  for  France  and  Carcassonne,  the  city  Mr. 
Lowell  had  urged  us  to  visit,  considering  it  the  finest 
specimen  of  a  walled  town. 

"They  tell  me  every  day  is  there 

Not  more  or  less  than  Sunday  gay; 
In  shining  robes  and  garments  fair 

The  people  walk  upon  their  way. 
One  gazes  there  on  castle  walls 

As  grand  as  those  of  Babylon, 
A  bishop  and  two  generals! 

What  joy  to  be  in  Carcassonne! 

Ah!  might  I  but  see  Carcassonne!" 

Leaving  Carcassonne,  we  made  a  "Little  Tour" 
through  France  and  Italy,  drinking  again  the  magic 
drops  of  the  fountain  of  Trevi.  From  Rome  we  went 
to  the  Italian  Lakes,  and  on  to  Paris,  where  Mr. 
Clemens  awaited  our  coming.  He  had  most  comfort 
ably  ensconced  his  family  at  the  Hotel  Normandy, 
and  was  himself  very  busily  engaged  in  wrestling 
with  the  French  language,  which  he  said  was  illit 
erate,  untenable,  unscrupulous,  for  if  the  Frenchman 
knew  how  to  spell  he  did  not  know  how  to  pronounce 
—  and  if  he  knew  how  to  pronounce  he  certainly  did 
not  know  how  to  spell.  How  it  all  comes  back  and 
springs  to  memory  —  the  wit,  the  chaff,  the  merry 
dinners  in  the  rue  de  1'Eschelle,  the  gaiety  and 
laughter!  Mr.  Clemens  said,  "When  Aldrich  speaks 


A 


230 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 


it  seems  to  me  he  is  the  bright  face  of  the  moon,  and 
I  feel  like  the  other  side."  A  dinner  which  the  Com- 
tesse  d'Aure  and  Madame  Blanc  gave  to  Mr.  Aldrich 
and  Mr.  Clemens  is  still,  to  the  only  survivor  of  that 
happy  hour,  most  clear  and  vivid.  For  some  forgot 
ten  reason  Mrs.  Clemens  could  not  accept  her  invi 
tation.  Manifold  were  her  requests  and  instructions 
to  her  dear  "Youth,"  to  hold  indelibly  in  his  mind 
the  etiquette  of  a  dinner  in  polite  society  in  France 
—  not  to  allow  it  to  slip  from  his  mind  for  a  second 
that  he  was  dining  in  "royal  circles,"  and  that  men 
tally  he  must  nail  himself  to  his  chair,  and  resist  all 
inclination  to  rise  before  the  dinner  was  half  over  and 
take  his  usual  promenade  round  and  round  the  table. 
It  was  arranged  that  we  should  call  for  Mr.  Clem 
ens.  Mrs.  Clemens,  in  consigning  her  charge  to  my 
care,  said,  "If  you  see  the  slightest  preparation  on 
Mark's  part  to  rise  from  his  chair  before  the  dinner 
is  finished,  pray  stop  him,  for  if  left  to  himself  he 
will  forget  he  is  not  at  dinner  at  home."  It  was  a 
brilliant  dinner.  Everything  went  smoothly  and  well, 
until  suddenly,  without  any  premonitory  symptoms 
whatever,  Mr.  Clemens,  uprising  from  his  chair  and 
with  perfect  unconsciousness,  began  his  rapid  prom 
enade  round  and  round  the  table,  holding  his  large 
white  napkin  in  his  hand  and  using  it  as  an  Admiral 
might  his  flag,  were  he  making  code  signals  to  his 
squadron.  Suddenly  remembrance  came  —  the  fur- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  231 

tive  and  delinquent  look  to  his  chaperon  —  the 
quick  descent  to  the  vacant  chair  —  are  the  white 
stones  in  that  day's  memory. 

Before  we  set  sail  for  home,  there  was  a  short  stay 
in  London,  in  the  pleasant  May  days: 

"It's  lilac  time  in  London,  it's  lilac  time  in  London." 

The  short  stay  was  made  more  delightful  with  the 
pleasant  meeting  of  old  and  new  friends.  Memory 
gives  back  a  summer  afternoon,  and  the  coming  of 
Mr.  Henry  James,  who  had  elected,  as  he  said,  "to 
be  a  unit  in  this  great  city,"  and  although  his  share 
would  be  infinitesimal,  he  still  could  claim  that  he 
was  part  of  this  great  heart  of  the  world. 

Mr.  James  was  most  interesting  with  his  experi 
ences  of  the  London  life  as  it  presented  itself  —  he 
had  become  familiar  with  society  and  no  longer  re 
sented  going  down  to  dinner  the  last  of  the  long  line 
and  with  the  least  attractive  lady  on  his  arm,  but 
not  a  lady  of  quality ;  he  must  content  himself  with 
plain  "  Mrs.,"  he  said.  Titles  were  for  his  betters.  Mr. 
James  told  an  amusing  anecdote  of  taking  tea  with 
Mrs.  Millais,  and  of  Mr.  Ruskin  being  one  of  the 
guests,  Mrs.  Millais  asking  Mr.  Ruskin,  with  an 
adorable  smile,  "Do  you  take  one  or  two  lumps  of 
sugar  in  your  tea?  I  have  forgotten." 

There  was  a  delightful  renewal  of  old  friendship 
with  Mr.  George  Boughton,  Royal  Academician 


232  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

and  charming  artist.  Mr.  Comyns  Carr,  in  sketching 
Mr.  Boughton,  said,  "He  achieved  in  England  a  de 
servedly  high  place  among  his  comrades  —  he  was 
a  man  of  fine  taste  and  delicate  perception  both  in 
the  region  of  art  and  in  the  broader  field  of  litera 
ture."  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boughton,  before  they  built 
their  house  upon  Campden  Hill,  had  begun  to  be 
known  as  accepted  hosts  by  a  large  body  of  artis 
tic  society.  In  later  days  the  big  studio  at  Camp- 
den  Hill  became  the  scene  of  many  joyous  enter 
tainments.  Mr.  Browning  was  a  constant  guest  at 
the  Boughtons'  dinners,  and  the  house  became  a 
meeting-place  for  nearly  all  who  were  interested 
in  art. 

On  our  arrival  in  London,  we  were  invited  to  a 
fancy-dress  ball,  given  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boughton 
to  inaugurate  a  new  studio.  At  first  the  invitation 
was  declined,  we  having  no  costumes  and  little  time 
or  inclination  to  procure  them.  Mr.  Boughton  was 
most  insistent  upon  our  coming,  and  as  insistent  that 
his  "studio  effects"  could  furnish  every  costume 
needed.  Finally  he  took  the  ground  of  our  excuse 
from  under  our  feet  by  sending  to  our  hotel  a  gown 
of  yellow  satin,  brocaded  with  silver  leaves  and 
flowers,  and  all  the  appointments  complete  for  a 
Lady  of  Quality  of  the  Watteau  period.  A  note  ac 
companied  the  Pandora  box,  which  read  something 
in  this  wise,  "A  red  rose  in  your  powdered  hair,  a 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  233 

touch  of  rouge  on  your  cheek,  and  I  '  kneel  at  your 
feet  and  adore!' 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  yield  and 
send  for  a  coiffeur.  When  the  evening  came,  the  red 
rose  was  put  in  the  powdered,  puffed,  and  ringleted 
hair,  the  cheeks  were  rouged,  and  the  slight  figure 
put  into  the  brocaded  gown.  The  coiffeur  took  his 
ducats  and  departure,  and  the  Lady  of  Quality  met 
with  disaster.  Mr.  Aldrich  did  not  like  the  "monu 
mental  pomp"  of  the  white  hair,  and  with  much 
disappointment  he  so  expressed  himself.  In  the 
atrical  parlance  there  was  a  "quick  change"  —  the 
powder  was  brushed  from  the  blonde  hair,  the  plain 
black  silk  dress,  whose  azure  trimmings  had  been 
sacrificed  in  the  visit  to  the  Pope  the  year  before, 
replaced  the  satin  brocade,  and  with  the  added 
accessories  of  a  tortoise-shell  comb  and  fan  it  was 
hoped  the  wearer  might  be  labelled  in  the  passing 
crowd  —  "Spanish  Lady." 

"Held  by  a  silver  dart, 

The  mantilla's  delicate  lace 

Falls  each  side  of  her  face 

And  crossway  over  her  heart  — 

This  is  Pepita  — " 

who,  Mr.  Aldrich  said,  "looked  much  neater  and 
completer." 
When  we  arrived  at  Mr.  Boughton's  we  found  the 


234  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

hall  and  stairway  quite  blocked  by  a  figure  in  full 
armor  on  the  stairs,  a  policeman  and  several  knights 
and  cavaliers  vainly  trying  to  move  it.  The  armor 
was  heavy  and  unwieldy,  the  man  inside  helpless, 
as  the  hinges  in  the  armor  over  the  knees  had  be 
come  rusty  or  caught  in  some  way  and  would  not 
bend.  The  unfortunate  prisoner  was  Mr.  William 
Black,  whose  portrait  in  this  same  armor  was 
painted  afterwards  and  now  hangs  in  the  Glas 
gow  Gallery.  Mr.  Macmillan,  the  London  pub 
lisher,  took  the  Spanish  Lady  to  supper,  which  was 
served  at  small  tables.  Mr.  Macmillan  had  selected 
for  his  costume  the  simple  one  of  a  white  linen  coat, 
white  apron,  and  cap  of  a  chef.  Unfortunately  the 
make-up  was  so  realistic  that  it  came  dangerously 
near  to  his  undoing. 

Mr.  Macmillan,  having  secured  a  small  table  and 
an  unopened  bottle  of  champagne,  went  in  quest  of 
sweetbreads  and  truffles.  Almost  instantly  a  man  in 
the  garb  of  a  monk,  with  a  slight  bow  to  the  lady 
in  waiting,  took  the  champagne  to  a  table  near  by, 
where  a  party  of  four  much  enjoyed  it.  Mr.  Mac 
millan  returned,  with  his  sweetbreads  and  truffles, 
and  went  again  in  quest  of  champagne.  The  room 
was  very  crowded,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  a 
guest  could  get  near  to  the  serving-table ;  but  by  a 
strategic  movement  Mr.  Macmillan  was  returning 
victorious,  when  a  Troubadour  barred  his  progress, 


WILLIAM  BLACK 

PAINTED  BY  JOHN  PETTIE,  R.A. 
1877 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  235 

and  with  scant  ceremony  reached  forth  his  hand 
and  said,  "I  will  take  that  bottle"  —  and  took  it, 
leaving  Mr.  Macmillan  in  such  a  paralyzed  state 
that  before  he  recovered  motion  the  Troubadour  was 
lost  in  thp  crowd.  The  third  attempt  was  successful, 
and  the  wine  brought  in  triumph  to  the  table  where 
the  sweetbreads  and  truffles  had  become  quite  cold. 
Mr.  Macmillan  had  poured  a  glass  of  the  sparkling 
beverage  for  the  Spanish  Lady,  and  was  about  to 
pour  one  for  himself,  when  two  beings  from  opposite 
sides  of  the  room,  Faust  and  King  Charles,  by  their 
dress,  advanced  quickly  and  said  in  one  breath  - 
"Give  me  that  bottle."  King  Charles,  begging  par 
don  of  Faust,  said,  "I  have  the  first  claim."  Faust 
replied,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  I  spoke  first."  There 
upon  a  heated  discussion  was  ushered  in,  until 
Mr.  Macmillan  said,  with  firm  determination  in  his 
tone,  "Gentlemen,  you  will  neither  one  of  you  have 
this  bottle"  —  whereupon  the  battle  became  two 
against  one,  the  Scholar  and  the  King  making  com 
mon  cause.  The  surprise  of  the  listeners  was  extreme 
when  the  King  said:  "How  dare  you  speak  to  a 
gentleman  in  that  tone?  Go  back  to  the  kitchen 
where  you  belong.  You  must  be  drunk.  I  shall  re 
port  you  to  Mr.  Boughton."  The  cook's  cap  and 
apron  were  too  realistic,  and  notwithstanding  apol 
ogies  and  explanations,  Mr.  Macmillan  was  much 
depressed  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 


236  CROWDING  MEMORIES 


BAYARD  TAYLOR 

In  other  years  —  lost  youth's  enchanted  years, 
Seen  now,  and  evermore,  through  blinding  tears 
And  empty  longing  for  what  may  not  be  — 
The  Desert  gave  him  back  to  us;  the  Sea 
Yielded  him  up;  the  icy  Norland  strand 
Lured  him  not  long,  nor  that  soft  German  air 
He  loved  could  keep  him.  Ever  his  own  land 
Fettered  his  heart  and  brought  him  back  again. 
What  sounds  are  these  of  farewell  and  despair 
Borne  on  the  winds  across  the  wintry  main ! 
What  unknown  way  is  this  that  he  has  gone, 
Our  Bayard,  in  such  silence  and  alone? 
What  dark  new  quest  has  tempted  him  once  more 
To  leave  us?  Vainly,  standing  by  the  shore, 
We  strain  our  eyes.  But  patience!  When  the  soft 
Spring  gales  are  blowing  over  Cedarcroft, 
Whitening  the  hawthorn;  when  the  violets  bloom 
Along  the  Brandywine,  and  overhead 
The  sky  is  blue  as  Italy's,  he  will  come  .  .  . 
In  the  wind's  whisper,  in  the  swaying  pine, 
In  song  of  bird  and  blossoming  of  vine, 
And  all  fair  things  he  loved  ere  he  was  dead ! 


CHAPTER  XX 

WE  had  been  much  impressed,  on  a  previous 
visit  to  Europe,  in  witnessing  a  foretaste  of 
the  formalities  prescribed  when  Royalty  descends 
from  its  heights  to  visit  a  subject  of  its  kingdom.  It 
was  in  the  small  village  of  Inverary,  the  Highland 
headquarters  of  the  Duke  of  Argyll.  Queen  Victoria 
had  signified  her  august  intention  of  visiting  there 
the  Duke  of  Argyll.  The  Marquis  of  Lome  had 
married  Princess  Louise,  the  fourth  daughter  of  the 
Queen.  The  prestige  of  the  Argyll  family  in  their 
own  land  was  well  shown  in  the  remark  of  a  High 
lander  on  hearing  the  news  of  that  engagement: 
"Aye,  the  Queen '11  be  a  prood  leddy  the  day! " 

The  Castle  stands  in  a  wooded  park  noted  for  the 
beauty  of  its  trees.  On  the  smooth  green  lawn  in 
front  of  the  entrance  gate  were  drawn  up  in  militant 
form  a  large  company  of  men  clothed  with  great 
diversity  of  costume.  Some  were  in  Scottish  kilts, 
some  in  blue  cotton  blouses,  some  with  hats,  and 
some  without.  Their  armament  was  as  peculiar  as 
their  dress,  consisting  of  sticks  that  looked  like 
broomsticks  minus  the  brooms  —  but  with  their 
aid  the  crazy  infantry  "presented  arms"  and 
"grounded  arms"  with  stoical  exactness.  We  stood 


238  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

for  a  long  time  watching  these  incomprehensible 
manipulations,  and  vainly  trying  to  bribe  the  Censor 
to  allow  us  to  pass  nearer  to  the  Castle  gates.  On 
our  return  to  the  "Argyll  Arms,"  our  host,  with  ex 
ultant  pride,  told  of  the  expected  visit  of  the  Queen, 
and  that  the  "awkward  squad  "  were  the  retainers 
of  the  Duke,  in  daily  practice  to  receive  Her  Maj 
esty  with  fitting  honors. 

Two  years  after  this  Scottish  episode,  we  read  on 
the  folded  yellow  leaf  of  paper  laid  at  our  places 
on  the  long  table  in  the  dining-saloon  of  a  Cunard 
steamer: 

LIST  OF 
SALOON  PASSENGERS 

per  R.M.S.  "Scythia"  May  24,  for  New  York.  [1879] 
His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Argyll 

and  man  servant 
Lord  Walter  Campbell 

and  man  servant 
Lady  Elizabeth  Campbell 
Lady  Mary  Campbell 

and  maid  servant 

Great  was  our  interest  in  this  reading,  and  strong 
was  our  hope  —  but  most  doubtful  were  we  of  its 
realization  —  that  the  distinguished  party  might 
come  to  the  dining-saloon,  and  that  we  might  gaze, 
even  from  afar,  on  their  table.  The  weather  on  the 
voyage  was  most  propitious  —  calm  seas  and  blue 
skies.  On  the  second  day  after  leaving  Queenstown, 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  239 

two  adventurous  mariners  were  pacing  the  deck 
when  they  were  joined  by  Lord  Walter  Campbell, 
who,  in  introducing  himself,  said,  "My  father  begs 
the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  Aldrich  "!!! 

It  was  with  fear  and  trembling  the  lady  waited 
until  the  Duke  came  up  and  was  presented.  His  first 
remark  was  not  flattering,  but  it  put  her  quite  at 
her  ease,  in  showing  that  it  was  not  herself  that  the 
honor  of  the  introduction  was  asked  for  —  but  her 
hat,  the  yellow  bird  that  alighted  thereupon  having 
so  much  interested  the  Duke  that  he  was  desirous 
of  its  name  and  further  knowledge  of  its  habits. 

The  owners  of  the  yellow  bird  expressed  their 
true  belief  that  outside  the  rue  de  la  Paix  there  had 
never  been  such  a  bird  on  sea  or  land.  When  the 
laughter  induced  by  the  "origin  of  the  species  "  had 
ceased,  formality  had  blown  itself  skyward,  and  the 
remaining  days  at  sea  were  days  of  delightful  com 
panionship. 

The  Duke  of  Argyll  was  at  this  time  fifty-eight 
years  old,  his  whole  appearance  indicative  of  energy 
and  vivacity.  His  face  was  a  striking  and  intellectual 
one.  "He  was  a  born  leader  of  men,  by  virtue  not 
only  of  an  earldom  dating  back  before  the  discovery 
of  America,  and  by  virtue  of  leadership  of  a  clan 
eight  centuries  old,  but  also  by  great  talents  and 
natural  force  and  breadth  of  intellect." 

In  coming  on  deck  in  the  morning,  we  were  reason- 


240  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

ably  sure  of  finding  "His  Grace,"  snugly  ensconced 
in  our  wraps,  and  his  book,  in  one  of  our  steamer 
chairs.  After  the  first  salutation  he  would  say, 
"Pray,  go  and  have  your  smoke,  Mr.  Aldrich,  and 
leave  your  chair  to  me."  And  as  the  "Lady  Nico 
tine  "  had  always  been  the  only  rival  in  Mr.  Aldrich's 
time  and  affection,  the  release  would  be  gladly 
accepted,  and  for  the  hour  or  two  following  there 
would  be  delightful  talk  of  books  and  men,  poets 
and  authors,  interspersed  with  glimpses  of  the 
crowded  and  varied  London  life.  At  first,  for  his 
listener,  there  were  grave  difficulties  as  to  the  proper 
place  and  kind  of  title  to  use  in  addressing  the 
speaker.  Several  times  in  the  interest  and  warmth 
of  discussion,  the  Listener  so  far  forgot  the  cere 
monial  rules  of  polite  society  as  to  say,  "Mr.  Ar 
gyll  " !!  With  much  humiliation,  pardon  was  begged, 
and  further  instruction  asked  as  to  the  form  and 
titles  that  might  be  used.  Bewildering,  I  think 
to  both,  was  the  Duke's  answer.  Well  remem 
bered  is  the  leisurely  way  he  reclined  in  the 
long  chair,  the  gray  fog  shutting  out  the  horizon, 
as  slowly  he  enumerated,  one  by  one,  his  many 
aliases,  and  laughingly  offered  the  choice  of  one,  or 
all:  Sir  George  Douglas  Campbell,  K.T.P.C.;  Mar 
quis  of  Lome;  Duke,  Marquis,  and  Earl,  of  Argyll; 
Lord  Hamilton  in  the  peerage  of  England;  Lord 
Lieutenant,  Hereditary  Sheriff  of  County  Argyll; 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  241 

Earl  of  Campbell  and  Cowal;  Viscount  Lochen; 
Baron  Simdridge  of  Corm;  Lord  of  Inverary;  Master 
of  the  Queen's  Household  and  Keeper  of  the  Red 
Seal  of  Scotland;  Admiral  of  the  Western  Isles; 
Keeper  of  Dunoon  Castle,  etc.,  and  " Mr.  Argyll "!! 

There  lingers  delightfully  in  memory  one  feature 
of  the  voyage  on  this  "Ocean  Sea"  —  the  shrill 
musical  cry  of  the  bagpipes  at  sundown  and  morn 
ing,  the  picturesque  figure  of  the  piper  in  his  tartan 
plaid  and  kilts.  In  fancy,  I  hear  again  a  voice  saying : 
"  I  could  not  explain,  nor  could  you  understand,  the 
emotion,  the  passion,  the  sound  of  the  pipes  awakens. 
Love,  family,  life,  ambition,  joy,  sorrow  —  all  are 
epitomized  in  that  mellifluent  cry.  I  am  taking  the 
pipes  to  my  son  and  my  daughter  in  Canada;  they 
will  hear  in  its  tones  the  spirit  of  Home." 

Mr.  Aldrich,  on  coming  down  to  his  cabin  a  few 
days  before  the  arrival  in  New  York,  saw  Niobe  all 
tears,  sitting  on  the  steamer  trunk,  the  cause  of  the 
tears  being  that  the  great  Duke  had  announced  his 
pleasant  wish  of  being  invited  to  Ponkapog  for  a 
visit!!  The  wish  was  received  with  consternation 
and  a  hurried  retreat  to  solitude,  to  devise  what  im 
pediment  could  be  laid  in  the  pathway.  In  this  one 
instance  Niobe  found  no  champion  for  her  cause  in 
Mr.  Aldrich.  With  true,  democratic,  American  inde 
pendence,  he  refused  to  see  the  enormous  contrast 
of  the  small  brown  house  of  Ponkapog  Village  and 


242  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

the  vast  masonry  of  Inverary  Castle.  Vainly  was  the 
practising  infantry  on  the  lawn  marched  before  him 
—  he  refused  to  surrender  or  lower  his  colors.  It  was 
not  until  mention  was  made  of  the  lord-in-waiting, 
the  gentleman  of  the  bedchamber,  the  man  servant, 
that  hospitality  waned  and  a  temporary  truce  was 
declared. 

When  the  voyage  was  nearing  the  end,  the  Scythia 
slowing  up  for  the  health  officer  to  come  aboard,  one 
of  the  fellow  passengers  approached,  with  hat  in 
hand,  and  bowing  low  to  the  Duke,  said:  "Your 
Grace,  the  custom-house  officers  will  soon  be  here; 
they  will  be  in  the  dining-saloon  at  the  head  of  the 
long  table.  If  you  will  go  at  once  and  take  your 
place,  you  will  not  have  to  wait  so  long  in  making 
your  declaration."  The  fine  courtesy  with  which  the 
Duke  thanked  the  stranger  for  this  entirely  super 
fluous  advice,  and  the  satisfied  smile  of  benefit  con 
ferred,  with  which  the  stranger  turned,  are  not  for 
gettable.  The  Government  had  sent  a  special  boat 
and  the  luggage  was  then  being  transferred. 

The  news  of  the  arrival  of  the  ducal  party  had 
been  much  heralded.  New  York  Harbor  was  gay 
with  every  variety  of  boats  and  sailing  craft,  flags 
flying,  whistles  blowing,  in  deafening  welcome.  A 
few  of  the  Duke's  friends,  with  many  city  officials, 
under  the  guidance  of  the  Collector  of  the  Port, 
eteamed  down  in  the  custom-house  boat.  Mr.  P.  T. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  243 

Barnum  had  asked  the  favor  of  being  included  in 
the  number,  as  he  greatly  desired  to  meet  his  wife, 
who  was  a  passenger  on  the  incoming  steamer.  The 
enterprising  showman  was  the  first  on  board  and 
asked  to  have  the  Duke  pointed  out  to  him.  The 
Duke  was  standing  by  the  rail,  talking  with  the 
owners  of  "the  yellow  bird,"  his  back  to  the  ap 
proaching  visitor.  Suddenly  he  was  conscious  of  a 
vigorous  slap  on  the  ducal  shoulder,  and  a  stentorian 
voice  rang  in  his  ear:  "Well,  how  are  you,  Duke? 
Welcome,  welcome,  Duke,  to  our  glorious  country! " 
Then  ensued  a  transformation  scene  more  sudden 
and  surprising  than  that  of  any  moving  picture  that 
has  ever  been  or  will  be.  Mr.  Cabot  Lodge,  in  his 
most  interesting  book,  "Early  Memories,"  writing 
of  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  says,  "  He  had  very  light  red 
hair,  which  seemed  to  be  flaring  up  from  his  head, 
and  I  remember  Mr.  Story  saying  that  he  looked 
like  a  lucifer  match  just  ignited."  The  blow  on  the 
shoulder  was  the  lighting  of  the  lucifer  match.  Its 
fire  burnt  and  shrivelled  to  ashes  the  daring  offender. 
It  was  a  wordless  battle.  When  it  was  over,  the 
thread  of  the  sentence,  that  had  been  dropped  for 
the  moment,  was  picked  up  again.  Nothing  was  said 
of  the  encounter,  but  one  could  feel  the  white  heat 
of  the  fray. 

In  the  informal  days  on  shipboard  the  acquaint 
ance  had  ripened  into  a  warm  friendship ;  the  invi- 


244  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

tation  was  given  that  the  next  time  the  sea  was 
crossed,  there  should  be  a  visit  to  the  Castle,  and 
this  time  there  would  be  no  need  to  bribe  the  Censor 
to  open  wide  its  gates.  The  sound  of  the  chain  as  the 
anchor  was  lowered  and  the  pulsation  of  the  engine 
ceased  brought  to  the  three  who  listened  a  real  re 
gret  that  the  pleasant  hours  of  companionship  had 
come  to  an  end. 

The  "extras"  and  evening  papers  of  that  day  an 
nounced:  "The  Scythia  arrived  at  the  dock  between 
three  and  four  o'clock.  Taking  a  carriage  soon  after 
five  o'clock,  the  Duke  and  his  son  drove  down  Fifth 
Avenue  and  Broadway  to  Brentano's,  in  Union 
Square.  The  Duke  called  for  the  American  edition 
of  his  book,  'The  Reign  of  Law,'  and  praised  its 
appearance." 

The  next  morning's  mail  brought  to  Ponkapog 
the  following  letter: 

"  New  York,  June  3,  1879 

"DEAR  MRS.  ALDRICH: 

"  I  have  just  had  time  to  go  to  a  bookseller  whose 
shop  was  known  to  my  son,  and  I  at  once  found  a 
copy  of  my  book  'The  Reign  of  Law,'  with  a  photo 
of  myself  which  I  had  not  before  seen.  It  is  an  Amer 
ican  edition,  and  the  back  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  a 
little  shabby.  But  you  must  excuse  this  and  kindly 
accept  it  in  remembrance  of  the  pleasant  conversa- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  245 

tions  I  had  with  you  on  the  passage  out.  I  am  much 
struck  with  the  handsomeness  of  New  York.  But  I 
must  proceed  as  fast  as  I  can  to  Niagara. 
"I  hope  you  found  the  twins  quite  well. 

"Yours, 

"ARGYLL." 

Mr.  Greenslet,  in  his  "Life  of  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich,"  wrote:  "With  the  beginning  of  1881  came 
another  event  that  marked  an  epoch  in  the  smooth- 
flowing  stream  of  Aldrich's  life.  Mr.  Howells,  who 
as  assistant  editor  and  editor,  had  wielded  the  tri 
dent  of  the  ruler  of  the  '  Atlantic '  for  fifteen  years, 
wearied  a  little  of  the  toil,  and  resigned  his  post. 
Immediately  thereupon  the  natural  thing  happened, 
and  our  poet,  who  had  long  before  won  his  editorial 
spurs,  and  who  had  been  for  a  score  of  years  one  of 
the  'Atlantic's'  most  important  contributors,  was 
appointed  to  fill  that  distinguished  'seat  of  the 
scorner.' "  Miss  Francis,  Aldrich's  assistant  for  the 
nine  years  of  his  editorship,  draws  a  pen  portrait 
very  true  to  life:  "To  work  with  him  was  usually 
a  most  agreeable  experience,  but  as  to  accomplish 
ment,  it  had  its  disadvantages.  It  was  likely  to  re 
mind  him  of  something  much  more  interesting  — 
some  bit  of  autobiography,  oftenest  an  anecdote  of 
his  early  life,  which  led  to  another  and  yet  another. 
Ah,  if  it  could  be  possible  to  put  that  desultory  talk, 


246  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

vivid  narration,  scintillating  humor,  into  cold  type, 
it  would  leave  any  tale  he  ever  told  with  pen  and  ink 
far  behind." 

In  the  same  year  and  month  that  Mr.  Aldrich 
succeeded  Mr.  Howells  in  the  editorial  chair  of  the 
"Atlantic,"  Boston  had  a  new  sensation  in  the  ar 
rival  of  Mr.  Oscar  Wilde.  In  a  note  to  Mr.  Aldrich, 
Mr.  Stedman  said :  "This  Philistine  town  [New  York] 
is  making  a  fool  of  itself  over  Oscar  Wilde,  who  is 
lecturing  on  Art  Subjects,  appearing  in  public  in 
an  extraordinary  dress  —  a  loose  shirt  with  a  turn 
down  collar,  a  flowing  tie  of  uncommon  shade,  vel 
vet  coat,  knee-breeches  —  and  often  he  is  seen  in 
public  carrying  a  lily,  or  a  sunflower,  in  his  hand. 
He  has  brought  hundreds  of  letters  of  introduc 
tion." 

On  Mr.  Wilde's  first  night  in  Boston,  "A  number 
of  Harvard  students  dressed  up  in  a  burlesque  of  the 
sesthetic  costume.  The  masqueraders  waited  until 
Oscar  Wilde  had  stepped  upon  the  platform,  and 
then  trooped  in,  in  single  file,  each  assuming  a  de 
meanor  more  absurd  than  that  of  the  man  who  pre 
ceded  him.  There  were  sixty  youths  in  the  proces 
sion,  and  all  were  dressed  in  swallow-tail  coats, 
knee-breeches,  flowing  wigs  and  green  ties.  They  all 
wore  large  lilies  in  their  buttonholes,  and  each  man 
carried  a  huge  sunflower  as  he  limped  along.  Sixty 
front  seats  had  been  reserved  for  the  Harvard  con- 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  247 

tingent,  and  it  was  amidst  shouts  of  laughter  that 
they  filed  into  their  places." 

During  the  stay  of  Mr.  Wilde  in  Boston,  Mr. 
Aldrich  lived  in  strict  seclusion.  No  invitations  to 
dinners,  receptions,  or  lunches  were  accepted,  on 
the  chance  that  this  prodigious  poseur  might  also  be 
a  guest.  It  was  not  until  the  end  of  a  year  that  we 
came  upon  Mr.  Wilde,  suddenly,  and  met  face  to 
face.  We  had  been  in  Europe  all  summer,  and  some 
thing  of  the  aesthetic  movement  that  was  then  agi 
tating  England  might  be  observed  in  the  costume 
of  one  of  the  returning  pilgrims,  whose  dress  con 
sisted  of  a  soft  brown  camel's-hair  gown,  long  cir 
cular  cloak  of  the  same  peculiar  shade,  with  smocked 
yoke,  large  beaver  hat,  Gainsborough  in  shape,  with 
floating,  drooping  plumes.  Among  the  innumerable 
souvenirs  of  travel  that  had  been  bought  for  the 
jocund  sprites,  were  two  bisque,  slender,  green- 
tinted  vases.  Each  vase  held  a  red  and  a  pink  China 
rose,  which  stood  out  from  the  receptacle  in  bold 
relief.  The  jocund  sprites  had  taken  these  treasures 
from  the  box  that  enclosed  them,  and,  in  the  hurry 
of  getting  to  the  train,  each  carried  his  vase  in  his 
hand.  And  as  the  sprites,  in  dress  and  features, 
could  have  stood  f or  Millais's  picture  of  "The  Young 
Princes  in  the  Tower,"  the  waiting  group  on  the 
platform  attracted  more  attention  than  was  de 
sirable. 


248  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

There  were  no  empty  seats  on  the  incoming  car 
excepting  the  lengthwise  one  at  the  door  and  one 
seat  on  the  same  side,  facing  it,  on  the  half  of  which 
seat  sat  a  man  clothed  in  singular  fashion.  He  was 
wearing  a  light-brown  velvet  coat,  a  waistcoat  of 
yellowish  silk,  blue  tie  and  stockings,  low  brown 
shoes,  and  lemon-colored  gloves.  The  hat  was  large 
and  of  a  different  shade  of  brown,  and  from  under 
it  the  straight  hair  reached  almost  to  the  shoulder. 
The  wearer  of  this  strange  costume  slowly  moved  a 
green  morocco  bag,  which  evidently  had  served  as 
a  retainer  for  the  seat,  and  with  a  bow  yielded  to 
the  one  who  waited  her  moiety  or  share. 

The  sprites  with  their  China  roses  in  their  hands, 
the  pilgrim  with  her  drooping  plumes,  and  the 
stranger  with  the  unusual  dress,  made  a  quartette 
so  remarkable  that  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  that 
they  became  the  attraction  for  all  eyes,  not  only 
in  that  car,  but  of  passengers  in  the  other  cars  con 
tinually  walking  through. 

The  train  was  an  accommodation  one  and  stopped 
at  many  way  stations.  At  each  there  seemed  to  be  a 
<•,  crowd  on  the  platform  who,  the  moment  the  train 

slowed  up,  would  spring  onto  the  steps  and  gaze 
into  the  car.  Mr.  Aldrich  was  riding  in  the  smoking- 
car  and  oblivious  of  this  scenic  effect.  It  was  not 
until  the  train  had  made  many  miles  that  a  sufferer 
arose,  and,  following  the  conductor,  asked  if  he 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  249 

knew  why  the  people  behaved  in  this  unpleasantly 
rude  way. 

Surprisingly  unexpected  was  his  answer:  "Oh,  I 
suspect  it  is  just  curiosity  to  look  at  Oscar  Wilde  " ! ! ! 
What  a  gloomy,  tingling  sensation  these  words  pro 
duced,  for  all  the  curious  gazers  must  have  thought 
that  Mr.  Wilde  was  travelling  en  famille.  If  wishes 
could  have  dashed  and  shattered  to  atoms  China 
red  and  pink  roses,  the  jocund  sprites  would  have 
arrived  at  their  journey's  end  with  empty  hands  — 
no  bangs,  and  —  long  trousers !  The  question  is  still 
unanswered,  as  to  what  Oscar  Wilde's  feelings  may 
have  been  toward  this  Bunthorne  group. 

Some  years  after  this  chance  encounter,  Mr. 
Aldrich  met  Mr.  Wilde  and  his  wife,  on  the  stage  of 
the  Lyceum  Theatre.  Mr.  Irving  was  giving  a  sup 
per  for  apparently  all  the  critics  and  distinguished 
men  and  women  of  his  city.  The  notes  of  invitation 
had  requested  that  the  guests  should  remain  in  the 
stalls  after  the  lowering  of  the  final  curtain.  As  the 
audience  that  were  not  invited  to  the  feast  filed 
out  the  atmosphere  seemed  filled  with  the  electric 
ity  that  was  always  an  accompaniment  of  a  "first 
night"  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre.  In  an  incredibly 
short  time  the  curtain  was  raised,  disclosing  what 
seemed  to  be  a  marble  hall  in  a  ducal  palace.  A  long 
table  ran  the  entire  width  of  the  stage,  with  wings 
at  the  sides  extending  almost  to  the  footlights.  Mr. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Irving,  in  evening  dress,  and  Miss  Terry,  in  volu 
minous  robes  of  white,  advanced  to  the  red  carpeted 
steps  that  temporarily  made  the  uprising  from  the 
parquet  to  the  stars  an  easy  ascension.  Mr.  Bram 
Stoker  introduced  Mr.  Wilde,  who  kindly  acted  as 
Herald  as  the  different  personages  came  in  sight, 
fitting  names  and  characters  in  concise  and  lucid 
ways. 

Mr.  Wilde  had  dropped  his  masquerade,  discarded 
his  unwise  and  foolish  attitude,  and  never  assumed 
it  again.  He  wore  the  conventional  dress  based  on 
accepted  rules,  and  in  no  outward  ways  differed 
from  his  fellow-men.  Mrs.  Wilde  was  pretty,  and 
young.  She  wore  a  canary-colored  gown,  so  modish 
that  probably  it  was  "created  "  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Channel.  At  this  time  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilde  must 
have  been  almost  bride  and  groom.  They  gave  the 
impression  of  congenial  companionship  and  happi 
ness. 

Vividly  to  my  memory  comes  another  evening  at 
the  Lyceum.  Mr.  Irving  had  invited  Mr.  Aldrich  to 
the  play,  and  to  supper  afterwards  at  the  Beefsteak 
Room,  to  meet  Madame  Bernhardt,  who,  when  in 
London,  was  a  frequent  guest  at  these  meetings  on 
the  historic  ground  of  what  had  once  been  the  old 
"Beefsteak  Club  Room." 

Mr.  living's  box  at  the  theatre  was  on  the  stalls' 
level.  It  had  a  special  door  which  was  approached 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  251 

from  the  stage.  In  the  intervening  years  that  have 
passed  since  that  happy  night,  the  name  of  the  play 
has  slipped  beyond  recall,  but  the  unrivalled  interest 
remains  of  the  slight  opening  of  the  door,  and  Mr. 
Irving's  tall  figure,  arrayed  in  all  his  stage  grandeur, 
beckoning  his  guests  to  come  out  for  a  minute  that 
he  might  speak  to  them.  The  rich  costume,  this  un 
familiar  accoutrement  of  the  stage,  produced,  in  one 
of  his  surprised  guests,  a  strange  shyness.  The  in 
stantaneous  thought  that  flitted  through  her  mind 
being,  was  it  possible  that  she  had  once  dared  to  tell 
this  sumptuous  splendor  "to  eat  his  mushrooms 
before  they  became  quite  cold"? 

At  the  fall  of  the  final  curtain,  Mr.  Stoker  came 
to  the  box  to  conduct  Mr.  Aldrich  on  his  winding 
way.  We  descended  a  red-carpeted  staircase,  crossed 
the  stage,  ascended  a  twisting  stair,  passed  through 
an  armory  filled  with  such  a  variety  of  weapons  that 
it  might  have  been  the  Tower  of  London  in  min 
iature,  and  were  ushered  into  a  large  wainscoted 
apartment.  A  few  logs  were  burning  in  an  antique 
fireplace,  and  drawn  near  to  the  blaze  was  a  high- 
backed  settee,  on  which  Madame  Bernhardt  was 
half  sitting,  half  reclining.  She  wore  a  white  satin, 
decollete  dress,  which  hung  loose  from  the  shoulder, 
where  it  was  held  in  place  by  heavily  encrusted 
jewelled  clasps.  The  waist  was  loosely  defined  by  a 
flexible  girdle,  made  of  large  squares  of  gold,  that 


252  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

formed  the  massive  setting  of  the  precious  stones 
that  adorned  it.  The  long  ends  of  the  girdle  reached 
almost  to  her  feet. 

Memories  bring  back  to  these  later  years  the  living 
picture  of  Sarah  Bernhardt,  as  we  first  saw  her  in 
the  Beefsteak  Room  of  the  Lyceum.  The  indefinable 
personality,  the  wondrous  charm,  the  golden  voice 
in  which  she  greeted  Mr.  Aldrich  —  so  perfect  her 
acting  and  so  kind  her  heart  that  it  might  be  true 
or  it  might  be  false,  "that  his  was  a  loved  and  fa 
miliar  name."  There  were  many  brilliant  guests  at 
supper  that  night.  Extraordinarily  vivid  was  Madame 
Bernhardt's  description  of  a  pantomime  she  had 
seen  hi  London,  and  of  the  acting  of  Columbine  and 
the  peculiar  manner  her  hah-  was  worn,  in  small 
curls  about  her  head.  "It  was  like  this,"  she  said. 
With  rapid  fingers  she  separated  the  strands  of  her 
rather  short  hair  and  twisted  it  tight  in  innumerable 
spikes  that  stood  out  in  bold  relief  all  over  her  head, 
which  after  this  realistic  illustration  she  seemed  to 
forget,  as  her  coiffure  remained  dressed  in  this  in 
dividual  fashion  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

It  was  delightful  to  see  Madame  Bernhardt  and 
Miss  Terry  together,  each  so  unlike,  both  equally 
fascinating.  Madame  Bernhardt  had  gone  early  in 
the  evening  to  Miss  Terry's  dressing-room.  Not 
finding  her  there,  she  had  written  on  the  white  nap 
kin  of  her  toilet  table,  "Ellen  Terry,  my  dearling," 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  253 

that  being  as  near  as  her  French  tongue  could  sur 
mount  the  spelling  of  "darling."  Miss  Terry  said  she 
had  cut  the  dear  message  out  and  should  have  it 
framed.  "  Fussy,"  Mr.  living's  little  dog,  was  much 
in  evidence  that  night  at  the  supper,  dividing  his 
attentions  with  impartiality  between  the  two  queens 
of  the  feast,  traversing  over  the  table  the  distance 
that  separated  him  from  the  strawberry  ice-cream 
of  Madame  Bernhardt's  plate  and  the  "tutti-frutti  " 
of  Miss  Terry's.  The  friendship  between  Fussy  and 
his  master  was  very  intense,  the  companionship  in 
separable.  And  although  Fussy  was  content  to  re 
ceive  the  adulation  of  the  entire  theatrical  company, 
his  true  allegiance  was  solely  to  Mr.  Irving  himself. 

On  the  first  visit  of  Mr.  Irving  and  his  company 
to  America,  in  the  change  from  the  train  to  the 
steamer  at  Southampton,  Fussy  disappeared,  to 
the  inconsolable  agitation  of  his  master,  who  was 
with  great  difficulty  persuaded  to  go  on  board  the 
steamer.  Telegrams  were  sent  in  all  directions,  offer 
ing  large  rewards,  but  they  brought  no  answers. 

Three  weeks  passed  without  sign  that  Fussy  still 
lived.  On  a  night  at  the  end  of  the  third  week,  the 
keeper  of  the  stage  entrance  of  the  Lyceum  heard  a 
faint  whine  at  the  closed  door,  which  at  first  he  dis 
regarded;  but  as  the  low,  plaintive  cry  continued, 
it  aroused  his  interest,  and  opening  the  door,  a  poor 
bedraggled  mite  of  a  creature  dragged  itself  in,  a 


254  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

wisp  of  a  tail  wagged,  and  the  almost  skeleton  of 
what  once  had  been  a  dog  fell  to  the  floor.  The  ex 
pression  of  the  eyes  and  the  weak  movement  of  the 
tail  forced  the  recognition.  It  was  Fussy.  How  had 
the  poor  little  wasted  being,  thirsty  and  starved, 
the  pampered  darling  of  happy  days,  found  its  way 
on  untravelled  paths  that  lay  between  the  stage 
door  of  London  streets  and  the  crowded  pier  of 
Southampton? 

It  was  of  the  same  little  dog  that  Mr.  Irving,  when 
he  was  told  that  the  Star  Theatre  and  all  his  effects 
were  in  danger  of  burning,  asked  first,  "Is  Fussy 
safe?" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TURN  backward,  O  Time,  in  thy  flight,"  and 
from  the  world  of  shadows  bring  again  the 
group  of  men  who  played  their  part  on  the  stage  of 
Life  that  wintry  day  in  1887,  when  in  the  Boston 
Museum  was  held  an  "Authors'  Reading,"  so  called, 
the  object  of  which  was  to  raise  money  for  a  Long 
fellow  Memorial  Fund.  From  the  first  inception  of 
the  idea  it  was  hailed  with  zeal  by  the  friends  of 
Mr.  Longfellow,  the  authors  and  poets,  who  for 
friendship's  sake  were  glad  to  add  their  quota  to 
wards  perpetuating  his  memory.  Mr.  Clemens  had 
suggested  that  the  price  of  the  tickets  should  be 
five  dollars.  On  the  day  of  the  "Reading"  every 
seat  in  the  Boston  Museum  was  occupied,  and  in 
every  available  place  the  people  stood  wedged  one 
against  another,  while  the  crowd  still  seeking  ad 
mission  reached  far  out  into  the  street. 

Before  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  when  Mr.  Aldrich, 
in  much  perturbation  and  genuine  stage  fright,  ar 
rived  on  the  scene  and  saw  the  semicircle  of  chairs 
all  of  one  pattern  and  one  height,  the  mise  en  scdne 
a  reproduction  of  the  stage  as  set  for  the  perform 
ance  of  Christy  Minstrels  with  their  darky  jokes, 
songs  and  dances,  he  said  to  the  assembled  poets 


256  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

programme* 
PROFESSOR  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON  WILL 

PRESIDE. 

1.  MR.  SAMUEL  L.  CLEMENS. 

2.  MRS.  JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

3.  DR.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

4.  MR.  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

5.  MR.  T.  B.  ALDRICH. 

6.  HON.  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

7.  REV.  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

8.  MR.  W.  D.  HOWELLS. 

9.  COLONEL  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 

THE  READINGS  WILL  BEGIN  PRECISELY  AT  TWO  O'CLOCK. 

and  authors,  he  felt  sure  that  in  that  environment 
the  moment  the  curtain  went  up,  involuntarily  he 
should  lean  forward  from  his  chair  and  address  Hon. 
James  Russell  Lowell  and  Rev.  Edward  Hale  in  this 
wise:  "Now,  Breder  Hale,  when  you  prays,  don't 
pray  so  much  in  general  way;  pray  more  perticler; 
if  I  prays  de  Lord  to  git  me  a  turkey,  dat  ain't 
nothin*  —  I  ain't  agoin'  to  git  dat  turkey;  but  when 
I  prays  de  Lord  to  git  me  one  of  Massa  John's 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  257 

turkeys  I  knows  I  'se  gwine  to  git  dat  turkey  'fore 
Sat'dy  night!" 

Mr.  Aldrich  was  so  obsessed  with  this  idea,  his 
nerves  so  strained  and  out  of  tune  (having  an  un 
conquerable  terror  of  speaking  before  an  audience), 
that  it  was  felt  he  might  almost  do  it  and  that  it 
would  be  wise  to  send  a  hurried  call  to  the  property 
man.  The  uniform  chairs  were  hustled  away,  sofas 
and  seats  of  different  form  brought  in,  and  the 
precise  semicircle  made  carelessly  irregular  and 
casual. 

In  an  old  and  yellowing  letter  bearing  the  date  of 
that  afternoon,  the  writer  of  it  says:  "We  were  in 
time  to  see  the  footlights  turned  on  and  the  curtain 
go  up.  Sitting  in  an  irregular  semicircle  on  the  stage, 
some  on  chairs  others  on  sofas,  were  the  ten  noted 
men  including  [Mrs.]  Julia  Ward  Howe  and  the 
chairman.  A  small  reading-stand,  a  large  bunch 
of  flowers,  and  a  pitcher  of  water  with  the  accom 
panying  goblet,  was  the  only  ornament  (excepting 
Aldrich)  on  the  stage." 

On  that  memorable  afternoon  Mr.  Clemens  was 
the  first  speaker.  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton 
said,  "I  am  but  as  the  Herald  who  proclaims  the 
names  of  the  heroes  as  they  enter  the  lists";  then 
introduced  Mr.  Clemens  with  that  felicity  of  word 
and  phrase  of  which  he  was  a  master.  As  Mr.  Clem 
ens  rose  and  came  forward,  loud  and  long  was  the 


258  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

applause  as  he  announced  his  subject,  "English  as 
She  is  Taught." 

Mr.  Clemens  was  followed  by  Dr.  Holmes.  When 
he  came  forward  the  applause  was  most  enthusiastic, 
unmistakably  showing  the  affection  with  which  he 
was  regarded.  Dr.  Holmes  read  "The  Chambered 
Nautilus,"  "Dorothy  Q."  —  an  English  paper  he 
said  had  spelled  it  "Cue,"  which  would  have  been 
more  appropriate  if  she  had  been  a  billiard  player, 
or  even  an  actress. 

Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe  was  the  next  speaker;  she 
read  "Her  Orders"  and  "The  Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic."  She  wore  a  black  velvet  dress  and  a 
white  cap,  and  as  the  martial  music  of  her  words  fell 
on  the  listeners'  ears  she  seemed  like  one  inspired. 
Rev.  Edward  Everett  Hale  came  next.  My  yellow 
ing  letter  says:  "His  selection  was  good  and  appar 
ently  had  been  well  practised.  He  is  an  odd-looking 
man  and  wears  misfit  clothes.  His  coat  seemed  to 
have  more  buttons  than  buttonholes,  with  some  of 
the  buttons  doing  double  duty;  his  eyes  are  sunken 
and  his  hair  grows  in  bunches,  two  of  the  bunches 
being  over  his  eyes.  Dr.  Hale  read  '  The  Great  Har 
vest  Year/  Mr.  George  William  Curtis  read  extracts 
from  the  'Potiphar  Papers.' ' 

Mr.  Norton  said,  in  introducing  Mr.  Aldrich: 
"'There  are  two  points,'  says  Mr.  Browning,  'two 
points  in  the  adventure  of  the  diver:  one  when,  as  a 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  259 

beggar  he  prepares  to  plunge,  one  when,  a  prince, 
he  rises  with  a  pearl.'  I  imagine  myself  that  diver, 
but  I  am  certain  of  my  pearl." 

I  quote  again  from  my  yellowing  letter:  "Then 
came  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  While  the  show  was 
in  progress,  Aldrich  and  Howells  sat  close  together 
at  the  back  and  chatted  occasionally.  Aldrich  sat 
stiff  and  prim  as  though  he  had  called  for  the  first 
time  to  pay  attention  to  Mrs.  Howe,  who  sat  at  his 
right,  and  was  naturally  bashful  and  nervous,  while 
Howells  sat  on  his  back,  his  feet  a  yard  and  a  quar 
ter  apart  out  in  front  of  him,  his  hands  in  gray 
trousers  pockets,  and  his  head  on  the  back  of  his 
chair.  Aldrich  does  n't  look  more  than  thirty  and 
Howells  would  pass  easily  for  forty.  Aldrich,  when 
standing  before  the  footlights,  did  n't  seem  to  know 
what  to  do  with  his  feet,  and  throughout  his  reading, 
which  was  very  poor  from  an  elocutionary  stand 
point,  he  was  nervous  in  the  extreme.  I  imagine  that 
Longfellow  only,  and  no  amount  of  money,  could 
drag  him  out  to  read  in  public.  At  any  rate,  he  did 
not  seem  to  relish  the  task,  not  even  a  little  bit." 

Candor  and  truth  unhappily  compel  me  to  allow 
that  this  description  of  Mr.  Aldrich  is  realistically 
true,  as  he  appeared  when  he  was  confronted  by  an 
audience.  Of  all  the  men  who  gave  their  voices  on 
that  day  for  this  dear  son  of  memory,  I  can  well  be 
lieve  that  if  a  gift  to  be  real  must  be  a  sacrifice, 


260  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Mr.  Aldrich  was  the  most  generous  giver.  It  was 
only  the  one  who  was  nearest  to  him  who  could 
understand  the  heroism  and  warmth  of  friendship 
that  brought  and  held  him  on  that  stage,  or  how 
erroneous  would  be  the  impression  those,  seeing  him 
for  the  first  time  there,  must  form  of  a  personality 
so  unlike  himself. 

In  the  everyday  circumstances  of  life,  Mr.  William 
H.  Rideing's  pen  portrait  brings  Mr.  Aldrich  to  my 
love  and  memory  in  a  way  which  no  other  written 
words  have  ever  done;  and  it  was  thus  he  ever 
seemed  to  me: 

"It  always  seemed  to  me  that  Aldrich  belonged 
to  other  times  than  our  own,  and  that  he  had  strayed 
like  a  traveller  returned  out  of  an  earlier  century. 
There  was  something  of  Herrick  in  him,  something 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  something  of  Lovelace.  At 
the  latest  he  would  have  been  at  home  in  the  age  of 
Queen  Anne,  a  sword  and  a  cocked  hat;  ruffles  of 
lace  and  a  coat  of  lavender  velvet,  strapped  with 
gold;  a  doublet  of  creamy  satin,  also  frilled  and 
embroidered;  knee-breeches  and  silk  hose  would 
have  become  him  better  than  the  quiet~clothes  he 
always  wore.  Without  swagger,  he  had  the  swing 
and  gaiety  of  a  Cavalier;  a  blithe  heart  and  a  habit 
of  seeing  things  through  the  airy  fancy  and  high  re 
solves  of  a  still  earlier  gallantry,  even  the  gallantry 
of  a  knight-errant  riding  through  the  forest  of  the 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  261 

world  with  songs  on  his  lips  and  a  wit  as  nimble  as 
his  sword.  His  weapon  was  raillery:  it  flashed  in  the 
air  and  pricked  without  venom  and  without  leaving 
any  rankling  wound.  He  literally  laughed  away 
those  who  crossed  swords  with  him,  and  left  them 
laughing  too.  His  conversation  was  even  better  than 
his  writings  and  like  them  was  crisp,  pointed,  and 
inimitably  and  impressively  whimsical.  It  seemed  to 
be  impossible  for  him  to  say  a  commonplace  thing 
or  to  say  anything  that  did  not  end  in  some  unex 
pected  turn  to  evoke  the  smiles  or  laughter  of  the 
listener. 

"  Confident  and  even  aggressive  among  intimates, 
he  was  incurably  shy  among  strangers,  especially 
in  public  gatherings  of  all  kinds,  and  had  a  strong 
aversion  to  speech-making.  I  remember  a  great  gar 
den  party  given  by  Governor  Claflin  to  celebrate 
one  of  the  many  birthdays  of  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 
Mr.  Aldrich  was  expected  to  be  one  of  the  chief 
celebrants  of  the  occasion,  but  he  shunned  the 
crowd  and  moved  about  the  edge  of  it,  until  at  last 
we  found  ourselves  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  it. 
The  master  of  the  ceremonies  pursued  him  and  dis 
covered  him  like  a  truant  school-boy. '  Here,  Aldrich, 
you  must  keep  your  end  up !  Come  on ! '  Aldrich  was 
inarticulate,  and  as  soon  as  his  pursuer  disappeared, 
flew  with  me  for  the  station.  Soon  afterward,  and 
long  before  the  ceremonies  had  ended,  we  were  at 


262  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

his  cottage  on  Lynn  Terrace,  not  hearing  speeches 
or  making  them,  but  listening  to  the  breakers  tum 
bling  against  the  rocks  of  that  pleasant  seaside 
retreat.  I  suspect  that  he  realized  his  disgrace.  It 
was  not  the  consequence  of  any  reluctance  to  do 
homage  to  Mrs.  Stowe,  but  rather  his  unconquerable 
dislike  of  publicity." 

Colonel  T.  W.  Higginson  was  the  next  speaker 
after  Mr.  Aldrich;  he  read  delightfully  his  "Vaca 
tion  for  Saints";  Mr.  Howells  read  extracts  from 
"Their  Wedding  Journey";  Mr.  Lowell,  Long 
fellow's  "Building  of  the  Ship";  and  in  this  wise 
ended  one  of  the  most  notable  entertainments  ever 
given  in  Boston. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"Now  one  by  one  the  visions  fly, 
And  one  by  one  the  voices  die." 

IT  was  in  the  summer  of  1885,  on  a  cruise  on  the 
Oneida,  Mr.  E.  C.  Benedict's  yacht,  that  the 
conception  by  Mr.  Booth  of  a  Club  for  Actors  took 
shape  and  crystallized.  Lying  fallow  in  his  mind  for 
some  years  had  been  the  desire  to  do  something 
tangible  and  enduring  for  his  profession,  but  it  was 
not  until  in  the  intimate  companionship  of  the 
yacht's  party  —  Lawrence  Barrett,  Parke  God 
win,  Laurence  Hutton,  William  Bispham,  and  Mr. 
Aldrich  —  that  the  idea  of  an  Actors'  Club  was 
seriously  discussed. 

"Mr.  Aldrich  with  happy  inspiration  suggested 
the  name,  'The  Players.'  Curiously  enough,  the 
whole  thing  was  based  upon  the  name.  If  Mr. 
Aldrich  had  not  thought  of  a  name  before  it  was 
thought  of  itself,  'The  Players,'  perhaps,  would 
never  have  existed." 

A  year  or  two  before  the  memorable  cruise  Mr. 
Booth  had  bought  the  fine  old  house,  29  Chestnut 
Street,  Boston.  This  happy  conjunction  of  near 
neighborhood  united  still  closer  the  old  comradeship 
of  Booth  and  Aldrich,  and  it  was  an  unusual  day  in 


264  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

which  the  two  friends  did  not  meet.  Many  were  the 
talks  and  plans  and  schemes,  in  front  of  the  cosy 
fire  in  Mr.  Booth's  den,  as  to  the  ways  and  means  of 
the  Actors'  Club  that  was  to  be,  so  that  it  was  not 
surprising  that  when  Mr.  Booth's  daughter  married, 
Mr.  Booth  grew  restless  and  impatient  with  desire 
that  his  plan  should  materialize.  Shortly  after  the 
daughter's  marriage,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Furness, 
Mr.  Booth  says:  "At  last  my  Boston  house  is  empty, 
scrubbed,  locked,  the  keys  in  the  office  of  an  agent 
who  will  sell  the  property  for  me,  and  I  am  here 
[Lynn]  for  a  few  days  with  Aldrich. 

"I  coaxed  him  to  take  some  buttermilk  to-day, 
and  he  wryly  remarked,  '  It 's  like  kissing  a  baby ! ' 
Is  n't  that  as  good  as  Thackeray's  remark  about  the 
American  oyster?" 

On  the  last  night  of  the  year  1888  a  scene  of  un 
common  beauty  and  significance  was  visible  in  a 
house  in  Gramercy  Park.  On  that  night,  and  just 
before  the  death  of  the  old  year,  the  members  of 
The  Players  Club  assembled  for  the  first  time  and 
were  formally  installed  in  their  home.  It  was  nearly 
twelve  o'clock  when  Mr.  Booth,  taking  his  place 
upon  a  dais  in  front  of  the  hearthstone,  formally 
addressed  his  associates,  and  in  a  brief  speech,  with 
gentle  dignity  and  winning  sweetness  of  manner, 
presented  to  them  the  title-deeds  to  their  club 
house,  the  building  No.  16  Gramercy  Park,  which, 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  265 

with  its  unique  furniture,  works  of  art  and  fine 
decorations,  was  his  personal  gift  to  the  Club.  No 
speech  was  ever  in  better  taste,  nor  was  there  ever 
a  good  deed  done  with  more  grace,  humility,  and 
sweetness.  In  giving  the  Club  to  the  Actors,  Mr. 
Booth  had  made  a  home  for  the  homeless  and  ever- 
travelling  profession.  This  great  benevolence  crowned 
a  life  that  was  as  full  of  benevolence  as  it  was  of 
grief  and  triumph. 

A  few  weeks  before  the  opening  of  the  Club,  Mr. 
Booth  had  written  to  Mr.  Oliver  I.  Lay:  "I  have 
heard  that  some  of  my  friends  among  the  Players 
desire  to  compliment  me  by  placing  a  portrait  of 
myself  on  the  wall  of  the  Club  reading-room.  On 
some  other  occasion  I  could  not  decline  such  a 
manifestation  of  good  feeling,  but  under  present 
circumstances,  while  the  house  is  still  my  own,  to 
be  presented  by  me  to  others,  I  shrink  from  the  in 
delicacy  I  should  be  guilty  of  were  I  to  permit  any 
conspicuous  portrait  of  myself  to  be  exhibited.  My 
friends  may  consider  me  morbidly  sensitive  on  the 
subject:  I  may  be  so;  but  't  is  my  nature,  and  no 
effort  of  mine  can  overcome  my  aversion  to  any 
suggestion  of  self-glorification  which  a  prominent 
portrait  of  myself  on  such  an  occasion  would 
evince.  .  .  ." 

Two  years  later  the  members  of  the  Club  com 
missioned  Mr.  Sargent  to  paint  for  the  Club  a  por- 


266  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

trait  of  their  president.  In  a  letter  to  his  daughter 
Mr.  Booth  wrote:  "Just  as  I  packed  my  bag  and 
was  about  starting  for  the  station,  Mr.  Sargent 
called  to  say  that  he  had  word  from  the  Art  Com 
mittee  to  paint  my  portrait  for  the  Club.  Of  course, 
this  is  the  only  opportunity  to  have  so  distinguished 
an  artist  at  me,  consequently  I  yield  to  the  annoy 
ance  of  posing." 

In  writing  to  a  friend  later,  Mr.  Booth  said: 
"When  I  told  Aldrich,  he  advised  me  to  buy  at  once 
a  piece  of  sand-paper,  and  inside  locked  doors  to 
sand-paper  my  soul,  for  I  might  be  assured  that 
in  this  presentment  of  myself,  all  secret  sins,  or 
thoughts,  would  be  dragged  squirming  to  the  light, 
and  were  liable  to  take  precedence  over  the  virtues 
when  this  master-hand  wielded  the  brush.  This  pre 
diction  would  have  been  verified  if,  after  the  second 
sitting,  I  had  not  said  to  Aldrich, '  I  am  disappointed 
in  the  picture,  for  if  it  is  a  true  portrayal  of  myself, 
why,  then  I  don't  feel  as  I  look.'  Aldrich's  advice 
was  urgent,  that  as  the  picture  was  for  succeeding 
generations  of  the  Club,  it  was  only  justice  to  the 
artist  that  he  should  be  told.  Upon  this  cue  I  spoke. 
Mr.  Sargent,  apparently  unconscious  of  my  words, 
painted  on  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  said,  'Look 
now,  and  see  if  you  like  it  any  better.'  The  face 
on  the  canvas  was  entirely  painted  out,  and  with 
ready  alacrity  a  new  picture  was  begun." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  267 

Mr.  Booth  writes,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Bispham: 
"  I  think  Sargent  will  make  a  great  success  with  my 
portrait.  It  is  unlike  any  I  have  seen  of  myself  in 
regard  to  expression." 

SARGENT'S  PORTRAIT  OF  EDWIN  BOOTH  AT 
THE  PLAYERS 

That  face  which  no  man  ever  saw 
And  from  his  memory  banished  quite, 
With  eyes  in  which  are  Hamlet's  awe 
And  Cardinal  Richelieu's  subtle  light, 
Looks  from  this  frame.  A  master's  hand 
Has  set  the  master-player  here, 
In  the  fair  temple  that  he  planned 
Not  for  himself.  To  us  most  dear 
This  image  of  him!  "  It  was  thus 
He  looked;  such  pallor  touched  his  cheek; 
With  that  same  grace  he  greeted  us  — 
Nay,  't  is  the  man,  could  it  but  speak!  " 
Sad  words  that  shall  be  said  some  day  — 
Far  fall  the  day !  O  cruel  Time, 
Whose  breath  sweeps  mortal  things  away, 
Spare  long  this  image  of  his  prime, 
That  others,  standing  in  the  place 
Where,  save  as  ghosts,  we  come  no  more, 
May  know  what  sweet  majestic  face 
The  gentle  Prince  of  Players  wore ! 

Mr.  Booth's  professional  life  closed  as  it  had  be 
gun,  by  chance.  His  last  appearance  was  in  Brook 
lyn,  in  "Hamlet."  As  the  curtain  fell,  the  applause 
continued  for  a  long  time.  The  audience  rose,  and 
Booth  was  recalled  again  and  again.  On  that  night 


268  CROWDING  MEMORIES ' 

his  theatrical  life  ended  without  any  formal  farewell 
to  the  stage.  For  some  time  the  periods  of  his  en 
gagements  had  grown  shorter  and  shorter;  little  by 
little  he  had  relaxed  his  grasp  upon  the  stage. 

The  last  few  years  of  Mr.  Booth's  life  were  passed 
mostly  at  The  Players  Club,  in  the  rooms  on  the 
third  floor  reserved  for  him  —  and  there  he  died,  in 
the  sixtieth  year  of  his  age. 

Two  years  before  his  death  he  had  a  slight  stroke 
of  paralysis;  from  that  time  his  health  gradually 
failed ;  he  knew  the  end  of  his  earthly  life  was  near, 
but  he  did  not  brood  over  it,  and  he  did  not  fear  it. 
He  had  often  said  with  Hamlet,  "The  readiness  is 
all,"  and  he  was  prepared  to  answer  the  summons 
whenever  it  might  come.  Nothing  in  his  life  was 
more  beautiful  than  the  spirit  of  resignation  in 
which  he  accepted  declining  health,  with  its  gath 
ering  shadows. 

In  April,  1893,  Mr.  Booth  had  a  second  stroke, 
and  from  that  hour  he  lingered  until  the  night  of 
June  7,  when,  soon  after  midnight,  the  brave  and 
patient  spirit  made  the  dark  voyage  into  the  great 
unknown.  On  the  night  Edwin  Booth  was  born 
there  was  a  great  shower  of  meteors.  At  the  hour 
when  he  lay  dying,  all  the  electric  lights  in  The 
Players  Club  grew  dim  and  went  out. 

"Good-night,  sweet  Prince; 
And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest." 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  269 


JUNE  7,  1893 

In  narrow  space,  with  Booth,  lie  housed  in  death 
lago,  Hamlet,  Shylock,  Lear,  Macbeth. 
If  still  they  seem  to  walk  the  painted  scene 
T  is  but  the  ghosts  of  those  that  once  have  been. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MR.  GREENSLET  writes  that  in  the  spring  of 
1890,  after  nine  years  in  the  editorial  chair, 
Aldrich  concluded  that  the  time  had  come  to  enjoy 
a  larger  leisure.  Resigning  the  post  to  Horace  Scud- 
der,  who  had  often  occupied  it  during  his  summers 
in  Europe,  he  sailed  for  the  East,  free  of  all  ties;  and 
manuscripts  and  "make-up"  troubled  him  no  more. 
The  memorabilia  of  these  years  are  few.  The 
Aldriches  were  abroad  in  the  summers  of  1890,  1891, 
and  1892.  In  the  summer  of  1893  they  built  "The 
Crags"  at  Tenants  Harbor  on  the  Maine  coast,  a 
summer  place  that  the  poet  came  to  be  immensely 
fond  of.  In  the  winter  of  1894-95  they  went  around 
the  world.  In  the  winter  of  1898-99  they  went  again 
around  the  world;  and  they  were  in  Europe  in  the 
summer  of  1900.  Despite  this  far-darting  travel  and 
the  zest  with  which  he  enjoyed  his  leisure,  Aldrich's 
pen  was  far  from  idle.  He  wrote  numerous  short 
stories,  and  though  he  was  continually  affirming 
that  he  had  written  his  last  poem,  the  impulse  was 
as  continually  revisiting  him.  These  years  saw  the 
composition  of  such  poems  as  "Elmwood,"  "Un 
guarded  Gates,"  "Santo  Domingo,"  and  the  "Shaw 
Memorial  Ode."  They  saw,  too,  the  successful  stage 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  271 

production  of  his  drama  "Mercedes"  —  his  black 
little  tragedy,  as  he  always  called  it.  Mr.  Palmer,  a 
New  York  manager,  and  an  old  friend,  had  often 
asked  Mr.  Aldrich  to  let  him  produce  "Mercedes," 
but  Mr.  Aldrich,  having  the  feelings  of  the  poet 
about  the  play,  invariably  replied,  "I  wrote  it,  I 
love  it,  and  I  don't  care  to  have  it  played."  One 
day  in  Mr.  Palmer's  office  he  saw  a  photograph  of 
a  young  actress,  Julia  Arthur,  with  a  scarf  thrown 
over  her  head.  In  the  pictured  face  to  his  eye  was 
visualized  the  Mercedes  of  his  imagination.  Mr. 
Aldrich  asked  who  it  was,  and  with  Mr.  Palmer's 
answer,  "A  young  girl  in  our  company,"  Mr. 
Aldrich  said,  "She  could  play  Mercedes."  Mr. 
Palmer  with  surprise  asked,  "  Merely  on  the  strength 
of  that  photograph  would  you  be  willing  to  have 
her?"  Mr.  Aldrich  replied,  "If  you  will  cast  her  for 
the  part  you  can  produce  the  play." 

To  Miss  Arthur  part  and  play  opened  new  possi 
bilities,  and  she  could  scarcely  believe  that  she  had 
been  chosen  to  act  the  fiery  Spanish  peasant  girl. 
She  flung  herself  into  the  work,  and  when  she  had 
finally  imagined  and  accomplished  her  disguise, 
even  Mr.  Palmer,  in  the  darkened  theatre  where  the 
rehearsal  was  about  to  begin,  failed  to  recognize,  in 
the  brown,  ear-ringed,  lustrous-haired,  and  fiery- 
eyed  Spanish  girl,  the  Miss  Arthur  he  had  known  in 
other  parts. 


272  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

The  following  note  from  Miss  Arthur  brings  back 
from  distant  years,  with  startling  clearness,  the 
evening  of  the  first  dress  rehearsal  of  the  little 
tragedy : 

"The  rehearsal  was  called  at  eight,  but  by  six 
o'clock  I  was  at  my  make-up  table  hard  at  work. 
When  I  was  ready  I  went  out  to  find  Mr.  Palmer, 
for  I  wanted  him  to  see  my  make-up.  The  theatre 
was  dark,  but  at  last  I  found  him,  leaning  his  elbows 
on  the  rail  behind  the  orchestra.  I  went  up  to  him 
and  said, '  Is  this  all  right? '  I  was  in  the  simplest  of 
peasant  costumes  with  a  big  comb  in  my  hair,  and 
stood  with  my  hands  on  my  hips.  He  looked  at  me 
for  a  moment  and  then  said,  '  I  gave  orders  to  have 
the  theatre  closed.  There  is  a  rehearsal  going  on.' 
I  stared  at  him,  for  I  did  n't  know  what  he  meant. 
My  knees  knocked  together  with  nervousness,  but 
I  said  again,  'Why,  I  just  wanted  to  know  if  you 
think  this  will  do.'  He  looked  at  me  quickly,  and 
then  exclaimed,  'Good  Lord,  child!  Is  it  you?'  He 
thought  I  was  one  of  the  Italian  women  who  came 
in  to  clean.  When  he  had  looked  me  well  over,  he 
took  me  to  a  box  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aldrich  were 
sitting,  and  I  was  introduced  just  as  I  was,  costume, 
make-up,  and  all.  I  was  in  a  panic,  for  I  had  heard 
of  Mr.  Aldrich  always  as  a  great  poet,  and  I  was 
only  a  young  girl  working  hard  over  the  part  and 
loving  the  role.  All  the  company  had  talked  to  me 


I 


JULIA  ARTHUR 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  273 

about  the  poet,  and  quoted  his  verses  until  I  was  so 
nervous  at  meeting  him  that  I  did  n't  know  what  to 
do.  Mr.  Aldrich  took  one  look  at  me  and  then  turned 
to  his  wife  and  said,  'My  Mercedes!'" 

The  week  preceding  the  first  performance  of  the 
play  had  been  unusually  exacting  with  social  and 
business  engagements.  All  the  time  Mr.  Aldrich  felt 
he  could  give  the  New  York  visit  would  be  to  arrive 
late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day,  and  leave  on  an 
early  train  the  next  morning.  Mr.  Palmer  had  re 
served  a  box  at  the  theatre  for  Mr.  Aldrich,  and  a 
large  contingent  of  his  friends  had  signified  their 
intention  to  be  present  at  the  first  performance.  The 
more  intimate  clientele  had  written  they  would  call 
at  the  hotel  soon  after  his  arrival.  The  train  was 
late.  The  sharer  of  the  nervous  hopes  and  fears 
hurriedly  unpacked  the  small  box  containing  the 
evening  clothes,  depositing  Mr.  Aldrich's  share  in 
his  dressing-room,  placing  them  with  systematic 
care,  that  he  might  lose  no  time  in  enrobing,  later  in 
the  day.  As  the  last  thing  was  taken  from  the  box, 
the  first  visitor  was  announced.  And  when  the  last 
caller  left,  the  time  for  dinner  and  to  dress  had  been 
sadly  encroached  upon.  That,  added  to  the  dis 
covery  that  certain  much-needed  articles  of  fem 
inine  attire  had  been  omitted  by  a  careless  maid  in 
packing,  threw  something  of  gloom  over  the  inter 
mittent  conversation  that  filtered  through  the  half- 


274  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

open  door  of  the  dressing-room.  At  the  most  im 
portant  moment  in  the  arrangement  of  a  coiffure, 
words  were  overheard  that  in  spite  of  the  hot  curl 
ing  iron  in  the  hand,  sent  a  chill  to  the  hearer:  — 
"Where  are  my  trousers!!!" 

With  enforced  calm  the  answer  was  given,  "They 
are  with  the  rest  of  the  evening  suit." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  the 
voice  said:  " I  have  the  pair  on  that  was  on  the  bed 
—  but  they  drag  on  the  floor  a  half  of  a  yard,  and 
for  the  want  of  several  inches  of  cloth  they  won't 
meet  at  the  waist.  I  think  they  must  belong  to  the 
twins!!!" 

The  hot  iron  grew  cold  in  the  holder's  hand  as 
she  stood  petrified,  deprived  even  of  thought.  What 
could  be  done  at  that  hour?  A  moment  later  the 
door  of  the  dressing-room  opened,  and  Mr.  Aldrich 
came  in  dressed  in  the  "pepper-and-salt"  lounging 
suit  he  had  worn  on  the  train.  Apparently  all  dis 
appointment  had  slipped  away  and  left  only  the 
desire  that,  for  the  one  who  cared  most,  the  mis 
fortune  should  be  smoothed  away  and  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  evening  not  spoiled  by  the  unlucky 
accident.  Mr.  Aldrich  was  firm  that  he  could  not  go 
to  the  theatre  without  evening  dress;  that  it  was 
disrespectful  to  his  friends  and  his  audience.  At  last 
the  happy  compromise  was  made,  that  he  would  go 
to  the  theatre  with  his  pepper-and-salt  trousers,  the 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  275 

rest  of  his  body  arrayed  in  evening  splendor;  that 
he  should  sit  in  the  back  of  the  box,  the  wraps  on  a 
chair  making  a  screen  to  hide  the  defection  of  the 
conventional  evening  make-up. 

When  at  the  end  of  the  play  the  curtain  was  rung 
down,  it  was  raised  again  and  again  in  answer  to  the 
applause  that  greeted  the  little  company  of  actors 
who  had  crystallized  its  success.  Then  came  loud 
calls  for  "Author!"  "Author!"  "Curtain!"  "Cur 
tain!"  followed  by  a  sharp  knock  at  the  box  door 
and  the  hurried  message,  "Mr.  Palmer  says  Mr. 
Aldrich  must  come  in  front  of  the  curtain."  The 
calls  of  "Author!"  "Author!"  "Curtain!"  "Cur 
tain!"  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  the  messenger 
returned  to  the  box  with  the  imperative  word,  "  Mr. 
Palmer  says  for  Mr.  Aldrich  to  come  at  once." 

In  this  unfortunate  and  awkward  dilemma,  Mr. 
Aldrich  stood  with  the  chair  as  a  screen  between 
him  and  his  cruel  audience,  bowing  to  the  right  and 
the  left ;  but  this  did  not  satisfy  his  uncomprehend 
ing  friends,  who  called  louder  and  louder,  "Author!" 
"Author!"  "Curtain!"  "Curtain!"  "Speech!" 
"Speech!" 

The  next  morning's  newspapers,  in  criticism  and 
editorials,  said:  "It  was  much  to  be  regretted  that 
Mr.  Aldrich  had  not  spontaneously  yielded  to  the 
flattering  request  to  come  before  the  curtain,  in 
stead  of  coldly  bowing,  at  the  back  of  a  stage  box." 


276  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

But  added,  in  extenuation  of  the  misdemeanor, 
"  Perhaps  it  is  the  cool  conservatism  of  Boston  that 
restrained  him." 

From  the  blur  of  the  closing  years  of  the  century 
a  few  incidents  rise  up  from  vague  and  indefinite 
memories,  and  stand  out  vivid  and  unconfused  from 
the  rest.  Very  clear  is  an  evening  at  the  country 
home  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whitelaw  Reid.  The  "week 
end"  company  numbered  some  twenty  or  thirty 
guests,  among  whom  Mr.  Aldrich  and  Mr.  Chauncey 
M.  Depew  were  conspicuous  members.  Mr.  Depew 
had  been  known  for  years  as  a  wit  and  a  brilliant 
after-dinner  speaker  —  and  he  brooked  no  rival 
near  his  throne.  Unconsciously  Mr.  Aldrich  had 
somewhat  usurped  his  wonted  place,  and  at  dinner 
that  night  the  charm  of  his  conversation  and  his 
happy  humor  had  centred  the  interest  of  the  table 
talk  upon  himself. 

It  was  after  the  dinner  was  over  and  the  company 
adjourned  to  the  large  hall  for  coffee  and  cigars  that 
the  "Lost  Leader  "  boldly  took  the  field,  unmindful 
of  the  disasters  that  might  follow.  Mr.  Greenslet 
says  all  his  life  long  Mr.  Aldrich  had  been  uttering 
good  things  as  copious  and  as  unconcerned  as  the 
bubbles  that  rise  in  an  effervescent  spring.  Now  he 
was  a  little  nearer  the  footlights,  and  his  sayings 
began  to  be  more  widely  repeated,  and  men  began 
to  tell  of  his  whimsicalities  at  the  clubs  of  New  York 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  277 

and  the  dinner- tables  at  Washington.  But  unfor 
tunately  for  Mr.  Depew,  he  underestimated  the 
weapon  of  his  unconscious  rival  who  had  taken 
precedence. 

As  soon  as  the  coffee  was  served  and  the  guests 
seated  in  a  semicircle  about  the  blazing  logs  in  the 
large  hall,  Mr.  Depew  rose,  and  facing  Mr.  Aldrich, 
said,  "You  are  from  Boston,  I  believe,  Mr.  Aldrich; 
and  is  this  your  favorite  bit  of  verse? 

"'I'm  from  good  old  Boston, 

The  home  of  the  bean  and  the  cod, 
Where  the  Cabots  speak  only  to  Lowells, 
And  the  Lowells  speak  only  to  God.'" 

And  then  followed  an  after-dinner  speech  in  Mr. 
Depew's  most  brilliant  vein,  but  full  of  little  thorns 
and  pin-pricks  directed  to  the  blond  young  man 
who  had  taken  from  the  elder  his  hitherto  unques 
tioned  right  of  being  first.  When  the  end  came, 
amid  shouts  of  laughter,  the  apparent  victor  with 
triumphant  smile  relighted  his  cigar. 

Mr.  Aldrich  slowly  walked  to  the  high  fireplace, 
flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette,  and  turning  to 
wards  Mr.  Depew  began  speaking,  constantly  in 
terrupted  by  laughter  that  would  cease  for  the 
moment,  to  break  out  again  with  renewed  vigor. 
His  weapon  was  raillery.  It  flashed  in  the  air  and 
pricked  without  venom.  Dr.  Holmes  once  said  of 
Mr.  Aldrich,  "You  have  only  to  touch  him  —  he 


278  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

goes  off  like  a  Roman  candle."  Mr.  Depew  had 
touched  him,  and  to  Mr.  Depew's  cost  he  went  off. 

At  the  finish  Mr.  Aldrich  bowed  to  Mr.  Depew 
and  sauntered  back  to  his  chair.  For  a  moment  there 
was  silence,  which  was  broken  in  upon  by  Mr. 
Reid's  voice,  saying,  "Sneeze,  Chauncey,  your  head 
is  off."  The  next  morning  Mr.  Depew  returned  to 
New  York. 

After  Mr.  Aldrich  relinquished  the  editorship  of 
the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  in  writing  to  a  friend  he 
said,  "I  am  so  happy  these  days  that  I  half  sus 
pect  some  calamity  lurking  round  the  corner."  The 
calamity  was  not  long  to  be  deferred.  It  came  in  the 
death  of  the  Honorable  Henry  L.  Pierce,  his  closest 
friend  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century.  In  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Gilder,  Mr.  Aldrich  writes:  "  I  suppose 
that  Woodberry  has  told  you  what  a  sad  and  anxious 
household  we  have  here.  Mr.  Pierce  came  in  from 
Milton  a  week  ago  last  Thursday  to  pass  three  or 
four  days  with  us,  intending  to  go  to  New  York  on 
Tuesday.  On  Monday  morning  he  had  a  stroke  of 
paralysis,  and  has  ever  since  been  lying  helpless  in 
our  house.  His  situation  is  very  serious.  For  nearly 
twenty-five  years  he  has  been  one  of  the  most  loved 
of  guests  at  our  fireside,  and  it  takes  all  our  fortitude 
to  face  the  fact  that  that  wise  and  gentle  and  noble 
heart  has  come  to  us  for  the  last  time.  ..." 

The  deep  and  unaffected  friendship  that  existed 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  279 

between  Mr.  Aldrich  and  Mr.  Pierce  was  most  un 
usual.  "Each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each."  They 
shared  the  mutual  interests  of  two  very  distinct 
lives,  and  the  varied  interests  of  one  were  vital  to 
the  other.  For  the  quarter  of  a  century  in  which 
they  were  together,  it  was  exceptional  (if  they  were 
in  the  same  city)  if  a  day  passed  in  which  they  did 
not  meet;  and  after  Mr.  Pierce's  death  the  miser 
able  feeling  of  loneliness  changed  for  a  long  time 
Mr.  Aldrich 's  world. 

Mr.  Pierce  was  a  Member  of  Congress,  twice 
Mayor  of  Boston,  and  although  in  later  years  de 
clining  public  office,  he  still  retained  great  influence 
in  political  matters.  He  was  a  citizen  whom  the 
people  of  his  city  delighted  to  honor.  At  his  death 
the  City  Hall  was  closed  during  the  hours  of  his 
funeral  and  the  flag  placed  at  half-mast.  The  Rever 
end  L.  F.  Munger  gave  at  the  service  this  brief  and 
true  summary  of  this  most  lovely  nature:  "I  found 
in  him  what  only  a  few  have  thoroughly  known, 
an  utmost  delicacy  of  mind  so  deep  within  him. 
It  showed  itself  in  a  feeling  for  nature,  a  sense  of 
mystery  under  the  sky  at  night,  a  reverence  before 
things  great,  a  tenderness  and  chivalry  that  was 
almost  ideal.  But  these  were  not  the  obvious  marks 
of  his  character  —  more  marked  was  a  general 
strength  and  positiveness  that  ran  throughout  his 
entire  nature.  He  was  in  all  ways  a  strong  man. 


28o  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

Strong  in  will  even  to  obstinacy,  strong  in  his  sense 
of  honor,  strong  in  his  love  for  his  friends,  strong 
in  his  sympathies,  strong  in  his  patriotism,  strong 
in  his  likes  and  his  dislikes.  To  those  who  knew  him 
best  there  was  a  certain  charming  simplicity  in  his 
character  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was  the  clear  and 
direct  product  of  his  nature,  unhelped  by  outside 
influences." 

The  leading  newspaper  of  the  city  in  writing  of 
his  death  said:  "He  was  a  citizen  whom  the  people 
delighted  to  honor.  His  public  and  private  life  was 
stainless,  and  not  in  a  long  time  has  there  been 
known  such  generous  remembrances  of  public  in 
stitutions  and  charities  as  in  the  provisions  of  his 
will."  Mr.  Pierce  left  to  Harvard  the  largest  bequest 
that  up  to  that  time  the  College  had  ever  received. 
The  Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  the  Institute  of  Tech 
nology,  the  Massachusetts  General  Hospital,  and 
the  Homoeopathic  Hospital,  were  also  left  like  be 
quests. 

"...  Little  did  he  crave 
Men's  praises;  modestly,  with  kindly  mirth 
Not  sad  nor  bitter,  he  accepted  fate  — 
Drank  deep  of  life,  knew  books,  and  hearts  of  men, 
Cities  and  camps  and  war's  immortal  woe, 
Yet  bore  through  all  (such  virtue  in  him  sate 
His  spirit  is  not  whiter  now  than  then) 
A  simple,  loyal  nature  pure  as  snow." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

OF  these  last  years  Mr.  Greenslet  writes:  "The 
end  of  the  century  and  of  the  happy  post- 
meridianal  decade  of  Aldrich's  life  came  together. 
Fate,  that  seldom  fails  to  balance  a  man's  account, 
was  preparing  to  collect  heavy  arrears  of  sorrow. 
On  Christmas  Day,  1900,  the  elder  of  the  twin 
sons  was  married."  This  marriage  brought  to  Mr. 
Aldrich  anticipations  of  great  happiness  —  antici 
pations  doomed  to  great  disappointment.  The  ac 
quaintance  preceding  the  marriage  was  short,  but 
the  spirit  in  which  Mr.  Aldrich  welcomed  the  en 
gagement  is  well  shown  in  the  lines  written  under 
a  photograph  of  the  bride's  little  girl : 

She  became  our  grand-daughter 
November  13,  1900. 

Black  shadows  should  have  tolled  the  bells  on  this 
wedding  day. 

Mr.  Greenslet  has  so  graphically  described  the 
incidents  of  the  next  years  that  the  following  ex 
tracts  are  from  his  pen : 

"  In  the  early  summer  of  1901  the  Aldriches  sailed 
for  England  to  spend  some  months  on  the  Devon 
coast.  On  their  return  they  were  met  at  the  wharf 


282  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

by  a  message  telling  them  that  their  married  son, 
whose  letter  received  just  as  they  were  sailing  from 
Liverpool,  announced  his  intention  to  welcome  them 
at  the  pier,  had  been  smitten  with  a  sudden  hemor 
rhage  of  the  lungs  and  had  been  hurried  to  the 
Adirondacks.  They  hastened  to  his  side,  and  for  a 
time  he  seemed  better.  There  amid  the  mountains 
for  two  years  and  a  half  the  fight  went  on  with 
alternate  seasons  of  hope  and  sad  certainty.  Only 
Mr.  Aldrich's  intimates  know  how  tragical  was  his 
grief  in  these  cruel  years.  Before  the  world  he  con 
trived  for  the  most  part  to  maintain  a  brave  cheer 
fulness,  and  through  his  correspondence  runs  a  val 
iant  humor  that  touches  with  poignant  pathos  the 
hearts  of  those  who  know  what  lay  behind. 

"The  story  of  the  earlier  months  at  Saranac  will 
best  be  told  in  his  own  words:  'We  are  very  pleas 
antly  settled,  and  like  the  quiet  life  here.  We  are 
on  the  edge  of  the  village,  with  the  mountains  for 
our  immediate  neighbors.  Our  house,  a  new  and 
spacious  villa,  stands  on  a  plateau  overlooking 
Saranac  River.  Two  or  three  hundred  yards  away, 
at  our  feet,  is  the  cottage  in  which  Stevenson  spent 
the  winter  of  '87.  The  sunsets  and  the  sunrises  com 
pensate  one  for  the  solitude  which  moreover  has  a 
charm  of  its  own.  ...  It  snows  nearly  all  the  time 
in  a  sort  of  unconscious  way  —  every  window  frame 
a  picture  of  bewildering  and  capricious  loveliness. 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  283 

If  our  dear  boy  only  continues  to  gather  strength  we 
shall  have  a  happy  -winter  in  this  little  pocket  Swit 
zerland.  He  is  very  thin  and  white  and  feeble  —  at 
times  I  have  to  turn  my  eyes  away,  but  my  heart 
keeps  looking  at  him.' 

"As  the  year  of  1903  drew  to  an  end  the  hope 
that  had  from  time  to  time  lighted  our  poet's  heart 
grew  fainter.  Writing  to  Mr.  E.  L.  Burlingame,  who 
had  made  him  a  nattering  offer  for  some  articles  to 
be  written,  he  had  said  —  'If  anything  should  hap 
pen  to  my  boy  I  ?d  never  again  set  pen  to  paper.  If 
the  task  were  begun  it  would  be  left  unfinished.'  It 
was  never  even  begun !  The  holidays  came  and  went 
and  the  gentle  life  that  was  so  dear  to  him  nickered 
to  its  close. 

"On  March  6,  1904,  Charles  Frost  Aldrich 
died.  By  this  death,  which  involved  more  elements 
of  tragedy  than  the  mere  pathos  of  mortality,  the 
settled  happiness  of  Aldrich's  life  was  shattered.  His 
literary  faculty  was  shrivelled  by  it  as  by  a  touch  of 
evil  magic,  and  though  he  regained  in  time,  to  the 
superficial  eye,  something  of  the  old  airy  joyousness, 
his  intimates  understood  the  brooding  sorrow  that 
lay  underneath.  Even  in  cheerier  hours  among  his 
friends  the  old  whimsical  flow  of  happy  life  was 
poisoned  at  its  source.  Xow  and  again  his  genial 
glow  would  come  briefly  back,  but  never  with  the 
old  unquenchable  fire;  and  often  in  the  full  current 


284  CROWDING  MEMORIES 

of  his  talk  he  would  fall  suddenly  silent  and  his  face 
would  be  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  his  grief. 

"The  summer  after  Mr.  Aldrich's  son's  death  was 
spent  at  York  Harbor.  The  familiar  places  of  Ponka- 
pog  and  '  The  Crags '  were  too  much  crowded  with 
ghosts  and  memories  for  readjustment  from  the 
old  life  to  the  new.  Happily  for  Mr.  Aldrich,  he 
became  interested  in  rewriting  for  Miss  O'Neil  his 
narrative  poem  of  'Judith  and  Holofernes,'  chang 
ing  it  into  the  tragedy  of  'Judith  of  Bethulia.'  The 
play  was  produced  with  success  at  the  Tremont 
Theatre. 

"  The  next  summer  was  spent  in  cruising  along 
the  coast  in  his  son's  yacht,  the  Bethulia;  and  in  the 
winter  Mr.  Aldrich  went  to  Egypt,  where  in  Cairo 
a  great  happiness  came  to  him,  in  the  engagement 
of  his  surviving  son.  'She  is  young  —  just  twenty,' 
Aldrich  wrote;  'I  shall  have  lovely  days  with  her. 
The  marriage  took  place  in  June.  All  the  Virtues 
attendant  upon  her  pealed  the  wedding  bells.' ' 

With  this  marriage  the  acute  pain  of  the  preced 
ent  years  lessened  somewhat  —  the  broken  square 
enclosed  again.  A  daughter  sat  in  the  place  of  the 
absent  son,  with  her  youth  and  beauty  giving  back 
something  of  the  cheer  of  happier  days.  With  calm 
serenity  the  twisted  cord  of  life  was  taken  up  —  the 
summer  drifted  into  winter,  bringing  with  it  its 
sudden  blight  of  unutterable  loss. 


CHARLES  FROST  ALDRICH 

IN  THE  UNIFORM  OF  THE  FIRST  CORPS  OF  CADETS,  MASSACHUSETTS  VOLUNTEER  MILITIA 


CROWDING  MEMORIES  285 

"Yet,  O  stricken  heart,  remember,  O  remember, 
How  of  human  days  he  lived  the  better  part. 
April  came  to  bloom  and  never  dim  December 
Breathed  its  killing  chills  upon  his  head  or  heart." 

Mr.  Aldrich  died  on  March  19.  Fittingly,  as  the 
sun  set,  the  end  came.  With  a  smile  of  ineffable 
sweetness  he  said  to  the  one  dearest  to  him,  "I  am 
going  to  sleep;  put  out  the  lights."  And  for  her  he 
loved,  the  light  of  life  went  out  and  darkness  came. 

On  the  first  day  of  spring,  at  the  Arlington  Street 
Church,  were  held  impressive  funeral  services,  "be 
fitting  a  poet's  passing." 

Mrs.  Gardner  asked  "that  his  pall  might  be  the 
violet  mantle  she  brought,  nothing  black  should 
shroud  his  airy  spirit  in  its  flight." 

"  I  wonder  what  day  of  the  week, 
I  wonder  what  month  of  the  year; 
Will  it  be  midnight  or  morning? 
And  who  will  bend  over  my  bier?  " 

The  friends  he  loved  most  "bent  over  his  bier." 
And  in  the  presence  of  many  of  his  old  comrades 
in  the  life  of  Letters  he  was  buried  in  Mount  Auburn 
Cemetery  beside  his  boy,  on  whose  grave,  as  if  held 
by  him,  rested  the  blanket  of  flowers  that  waited  to 
cover  the  displaced  brown  earth.  On  the  recumbent 
stone  of  granite  and  slate,  underneath  the  carven 
wreath,  is  inscribed  a  fragment  of  Mr.  Aldrich's  own 
lines : 


286  CROWDING  MEMORIES 


"...  How  trivial  now 
To  him  must  earthly  laurel  be 
Who  wears  the  amaranth  on  his  brow! 
How  vain  the  voices  of  mortality! 

So  take  him,  Earth,  and  this  his  mortal  part 
With  that  shrewd  alchemy  thou  hast,  transmute 
To  flower  and  leaf  in  thine  unending  Springs!" 


FINIS 


'That  which  in  him  was  fair 

Still  shall  be  ours; 
Yet,  yet  my  heart  lies  there 

Under  the  flowers." 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Actors'  Club,  263-67. 

Agassiz,  Louis,  135. 

Aldrich,  Charles  Frost,  marriage 
of,  281;  illness  and  death  of, 
281-83. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  as  imag 
ined  and  in  the  reality,  18,  19; 
at  the  Booths',  22 ;  as  visualized 
by  Mr.  Greenslet,  24;  doing 
editorial  work  on  the  "Illus 
trated  News,"  29;  his  chap- 
eronage  of  Booth,  31-33;  en 
gagement  to  the  future  Mrs. 
Aldrich,  43,  44;  early  life,  45, 
46;  his  association  with  N.  P. 
Willis,  46-48;  and  Miss  Gar- 
nault,  49-53;  injured  in  riot, 
54;  among  his  artist  friends, 
55~57;  introduced  fiancee  at 
Bryant's  testimonial,  57-59; 
with  Booth  after  the  assassina 
tion  of  Lincoln,  74,  75;  in  the 
year  1865,  84;  offered  editor 
ship  of  "Every  Saturday,"  85; 
married,  85;  sonnet  of  Bayard 
Taylor  on  marriage  of,  86; 
intimacy  with  W.  D.  Howells, 
87,  88,  90;  his  inspiration,  88; 
and  Dickens's  readings,  99;  and 
the  "Nutter  House,"  110-18; 
and  "The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy," 
111-18;  birth  of  twins,  118; 
early  epistolary  acquaintance 
with  Mark  Twain,  127,  128; 
his  wit,  145;  on  first  days  in 
London,  169-72;  quoted  on 
apartment  at  Paris,  193,  194; 
quoted  on  visit  to  the  Pope, 


201-16;  on  his  return  home,  2 19; 
"The  Legend  of  Ara  Cceli," 
220-22 ;  begins  a  new  novel,  224; 
becomes  editor  of  the  "At 
lantic,"  245;  from  portrait  of, 
by  Miss  Francis,  245;  at  the 
"Longfellow  Memorial  Fund" 
readings,  255-60;  William  H. 
Rideing's  pen  portrait  of,  260- 
62;  suggests  name  "  The  Play 
ers"  for  the  Actors'  Club,  263; 
resigns  editorshipof  "Atlantic, " 
270;  doings  of,  in  years  im 
mediately  following  resigna 
tion  from  editorship  of  "At 
lantic,"  270;  and  "Mercedes," 
271-76;  bout  with  Chauncey 
M.  Depew,  276-78;  his  friend 
ship  with  Henry  L.  Pierce, 
278,  279;  marriage  of  his  elder 
son,  281;  and  "Judith  of 
Bethulia,"  284;  marriage  of  his 
second  son,  284;  death,  285; 
epitaph,  286. 

Aldrich,  Mrs.  T.  B.,  sees  Edwin 
Booth  act,  1,2;  premonition  of, 
connected  with  Edwin  Booth, 
2;  meets  Edwin  Booth  and 
his  wife  in  a  New  York  apart 
ment  house,  2-5;  engagement 
to  Mr.  Aldrich,  43,  44;  at 
testimonial  to  W.  C.  Bryant  at 
the  Century  Club,  57-59;  at 
tends  review  in  Washington, 
77,  78;  marriage,  85;  sonnet  of 
Bayard  Taylor  on  marriage,  86; 
and  Mrs.  Stowe,  122-27;  meets 
Mr.  Browning,  178;  introduced 


290 


INDEX 


to  Duke  of  Argyll,  239;  con 
versations  of  Duke  of  Argyll 
with,  239-41;  Duke  of  Argyll 
presents  his  book  to,  244;  at 
supper  given  by  Irving  to  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  250-53. 

Aldriches,  the,  honeymoon  months 
of,  86,  87;  and  Justin  Winsor, 
91-95;  and  their  house,  84 
Pinckney  St.,  96,  102;  Dickens 
calls  on,  102,  103;  Dickens's  in 
terest  in  their  Pinckney  St. 
house,  104,  105;  Longfellow 
calls  on,  108;  at  Rose  Cottage, 
119,  120;  Mark  Twain  calls  on, 
128-32,  visit  the  Clemenses, 
143-48,  157-60;  start  for  Eu 
rope,  161^64;  on  board  the 
"Abyssinia,"  164-68;  dine  at 
the  Smalleys',  173-84;  see  the 
sights  of  London,  185,190;  dine 
at  "The  Star  and  Garter," 
Richmond,  186-90;  visit  Can 
terbury,  190-93;  go  to  Paris, 
193;  at  Paris,  193-98;  go  to 
Rome,  199-201 ;  at  Rome,  201 ; 
visit  the  Pope,  201-16;  con 
tinue  their  journey,  216;  return 
to  America,  216;  sail  on  second 
voyage  to  Europe,  224;  travel 
to  Spain,  225;  go  to  Africa, 
228,  229;  their  travels  in  Spain, 
229;  their  travels  in  France 
and  Italy,  229;  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Clemens  in  Paris,  229-31 ; 
in  London,  231,  232;  at  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Boughton's  ball,  232 ; 
meet  Oscar  Wilde,  247-49;  tne 
doings  of,  in  years  immediately 
following  resignation  of  Aldrich 
from  editorship  of  "Atlantic," 
270. 

Argyll,  Duke  of,  the  Queen  visits, 
237,  238;  seeks  introduction  to 


Mrs.  Aldrich,  239;  his  per 
sonality,  239;  form  of  address 
to,  240,  241 ;  wishes  invitation 
to  Ponkapog,  241;  and  P.  T. 
Barnum,  243;  arrival  in  New 
York,  244;  presents  his  book  to 
Mrs.  Aldrich,  244. 

Arthur,  Julia,  271-76. 

Artists'  receptions,  55-57. 

"Atlantic  Monthly,"  87,  88; 
Aldrich  becomes  editor  of,  245. 

Aure,  Comte  and  Comtesse  d', 
197,  198. 

Authors'  Readings,  255-62. 

Badeau,  Captain,  35,  37. 

Bagpipes,  the  music  of,  241. 

Bailey,  Grandfather,  death,  119. 

Bancroft,  George,  58. 

Barnum,  P.  T.,  and  the  Duke  of 
Argyll,  243. 

Barrett,  Lawrence,  263. 

Barstow,  Major  Wilson,  29. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  64. 

Beefsteak  Room  of  Lyceum  Thea 
tre,  250,  252. 

Bernhardt,  Sarah,  Irving  gives 
supper  to,  at  the  Beefsteak 
Room  of  the  Lyceum  Theatre, 

250-53- 

Bierstadt,  Mr.,  22,  23. 

Bingham,  John  A.,  83. 

Bispham,  William,  263. 

Black,  William,  234. 

Blanc,  Therese  de  Solins,  197, 
230. 

Boker,  George  H.,  59. 

Booth,  Mrs.,  mother  of  Edwin 
Booth,  39,  72,  75,  76. 

Booth,  Edwin,  seen  by  Mr.  Al 
drich 's  future  wife,  I,  2;  as  he 
appeared  in  an  apartment 
house  dining-room,  3-5;  m's 
presence,  6,  7 ;  his  daily  habits, 


INDEX 


291 


7,  8;  valued  highly  his  wife's 
approval,  8;  and  social  events, 
9;  and  the  question  of  Hamlet's 
insanity,  9;  preparation  of  a 
new  Hamlet  costume  for,  10,11; 
accepts  London  engagement, 
li;  daughter  born  to,  12;  re 
turns  to  America,  12;  break 
fast  in  rooms  of,  16-19;  an 
evening  at  his  rooms,  19-23; 
suppers  with,  25;  and  his  minia 
ture,  26,  27;  his  tendency  to 
drink,  25,  28,  30;  engagement 
in  Boston,  27;  takes  house  near 
Boston,  28;  comes  to  New 
York  without  Mrs.  Booth,  29, 
30;  chaperonage  of,  by  Aldrich 
and  Thompson,  31-33;  at  the 
time  of  his  wife's  sickness  and 
death,  34-38;  quotations  from 
letters  on  his  wife's  death, 
40-42;  remark  on  paintings, 
57;  after  his  wife's  death,  60; 
becomes  part  proprietor  of 
Winter  Theatre,  60;  and  the 
part  of  "Hamlet,"  61;  engage 
ment  in  Boston,  61 ;  appearance 
at  Boston  Theatre  on  night 
of  assassination  of  Lincoln, 
65,  66,  70;  on  the  morning  after 
the  assassination,  71;  during 
the  following  days,  73-75;  at 
trial  of  conspirators,  82,  83;  and 
The  Players  Club,  263-67; 
portrait  painted  by  Sargent, 
265-67;  lines  on  the  portrait, 
267;  end  of  his  professional 
career,  267,  268;  last  years  and 
death,  268;  lines  on,  269. 
Booth,  Mrs.  Edwin,  her  appear 
ance,  4-6;  and  Booth's  Hamlet 
costume,  10,  n;  and  Booth's 
miniature,  26,  27;  sickness  and 
death,  34-38;  poem  of  T.  W. 


Parsons  on,  39;  funeral,  39;  epi 
taph  on,  40. 

Booth,  John  Wilkes,  39;  at  the 
Stoddards',  34;  and  the  assassi 
nation  of  Lincoln,  69-72 ;  letter 
to  his  mother,  72 ;  the  idol  of  his 
mother,  73 ;  death  of,  74-76. 

Booth,  Junius  Brutus,  32,  33. 

Boston  in  the  sixties,  90. 

Boston  Museum,  255. 

Boston  Theatre,  the,  65,  66. 

Boughton,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George 
H.,  231,  232. 

Browning,  Robert,  178,  179,  232. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  testi 
monial  to,  57-59. 

Burgos,  226. 

Burlingame,  Anson,  151. 

Calais,  193. 

Campbell,  Lord  Walter,  238,  239. 

Canterbury,  190-93. 

Carcassonne,  229. 

Carr,  Comyns,  232. 

Gary,  Miss,  quotations  from  let 
ters  of  Booth  to,  60,  61. 

Century  Club,  the,  15,  57-59. 

Chester,  168. 

Clarke,  Mrs.  J.  S.,  33,  75. 

Clemens,  S.  L.  (Mark  Twain), 
early  epistolary  acquaintance 
with  Aldrich,  127,  128;  calls  on 
the  Aldriches,  128-32;  works 
on  the  "Era,"  139;  a  visit  to, 
143-48,  157-60;  his  description 
of  Aldrich 's  wit,  145,  146; 
anecdotes  of,  146-48,  157-60; 
asks  blessing,  148;  his  adora 
tion  for  his  wife,  148,  156,  157; 
and  picture  of  Olivia  Langdon, 
149;  description  of,  150;  pro 
fanity  of,  150,  151;  meets 
Olivia  Langdon,  151;  becomes 
engaged  to  Miss  Langdon,  155; 


2Q2 


INDEX 


welcomes  Aldrich  home  from 
Europe,  219;  in  Paris  with 
the  Aldriches,  229-31;  on  the 
French  language,  229;  at  din 
ner  given  by  Comtesse  d'Aure 
and  Madame  Blanc,  230,  231 ; 
reads  at  "Longfellow  Memorial 
Fund"  readings,  256,  257. 

Clemens,  Mrs.  S.  L.,  147,  156, 
I57»  *59-  See  Langdon,  Olivia. 

Conspirators,  trial  of,  80-83. 

"Crags,  The,"  270. 

Curtis,  G.  W.,  107;  reads  at 
"Longfellow  Memorial  Fund" 
readings,  256,  258. 

Dana,  Richard  H.,  Jr.,  135. 

D'Aure,  Comtesse,  230. 

Depew,  Chauncey  M.,  and  Al 
drich,  bout  between,  276-78. 

Dickens,  Charles,  quotations  from 
letters  regarding  his  coming  to 
America,  96-98;  arrival  in 
Boston,  98;  sale  of  tickets  for 
readings  of,  99;  and  his  read 
ings,  99-101 ;  letter  to  Professor 
Felton  on  "Christmas  Carol," 
101 ;  calls  on  the  Aldriches,  102, 
103;  his  interest  in  the  Aldrich 
house  on  Pinckney  St.,  104, 105; 
and  the  "walking  match,"  105, 
106;  and  the  dinner  following 
the  "walking  match,"  106, 
107. 

Dolby,  Mr.,  105. 

Dover,  193. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  58,  135. 
"Every  Saturday,"  85. 
Europe,  the  Aldriches'  first  visit 
to,  161-218. 

Fawcett,  Edgar,  223. 
Felton,  Professor  C.  C,  101. 


Fields,  James  T.,  87,  96, 104, 105, 

133- 

Follen,  Mrs.,  121. 
Ford's  Theatre,  Washington,  66- 

70;  visit  to,  80,  8l. 
Francis,  Miss  Susan   M.,  a  pen 

portrait  of  Aldrich  by,  245. 
French,  speaking  and  studying, 

195-97- 
Fussy,  Irving's  dog,  253,  254. 

Gardner,  Mrs.,  285. 

Garnault,  Miss,  49-53.  See 
Smalley,  P.  G. 

Garrick,  David,  94. 

Genoa,  200. 

"George,"  144. 

Godwin,  Parke,  23,  263. 

Goodman,  Joe,  148,  156. 

Grant,  U.  S.,  65,  80;  in  Madrid, 
227,  228. 

Grant,  Mrs.  U.  S.,  her  tact,  228. 

Greenslet,  Ferris,  quoted  on 
meeting  of  Mr.  Aldrich  and 
Miss  Woodman,  I ;  quoted  on 
Mr.  Aldrich 's  appearance  and 
manner,  24;  quoted  on  the  year 
1865,  84,  85;  quoted  on  the 
Pinckney  St.  house,  96;  quoted 
on  the  "Nutter  House,"  115; 
quoted  on  the  birth  of  twins, 
1 1 8;  letter  of  Lowell  quoted  by, 
226;  on  Mr.  Aldrich's  appoint 
ment  to  editorship  of  the  "At 
lantic,"  245;  cited,  270,  276; 
quoted  on  death  of  Mr.  Al 
drich's  son,  281-84. 

Hale,  E.  E.,  reads  at  "Longfellow 
Memorial  Fund  "  readings,  256, 
258. 

Harte,  Bret,  visits  Boston,  133; 
Howells's  account  of  his  visit, 
133-35;  dines  with  the  Satur- 


INDEX 


293 


day  Gub,  135;  accepts  offer  to 
contribute  to  the  "Atlantic," 
135;  anecdotes  of,  136,  137;  his 
early  life,  138,  139;  his  writing 
of  "The  Heathen  Chinee," 
139;  at  reception  of  social 
aspirant,  139,  140;  gives  Phi 
Beta  Kappa  Poem,  142. 

Hartford,  143. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  168,  190. 

Hawthorne,  Mrs.,  102. 

Herold,  Young,  81. 

Higginson,  Colonel  T.  W.,  reads  at 
"Longfellow  Memorial  Fund" 
readings,  256,  262. 

Holmes,  O.  W.,  59;  reads  at 
"Longfellow  Memorial  Fund  " 
readings,  256,  258. 

Howe,  Julia  Ward,  39,  59;  sings 
"The  Battle  Hymn,"  140;  poet 
and  patriot,  141;  in  battle  of 
wits,  141 ;  reads  at  "Longfellow 
Memorial  Fund  "  readings,  256, 
258. 

Howells,  William  Dean,  assistant 
editor  of  "Atlantic  Monthly," 
87;  intimacy  with  Aldrich,  87, 
88;  his  manner  of  working,  88; 
difficulties  in  getting  married, 
88-90;  and  the  Aldrich  house 
on  Pinckney  St.,  102;  his  ac 
count  of  Bret  Harte's  visit  to 
Boston,  133-35;  at  Mark 
Twain's,  143,  145,  146;  from 
sketch  of  Mark  Twain,  158; 
reads  at  "Longfellow  Memorial 
Fund"  readings,  256-62;  on 
Aldrich's  wit,  277. 

Howells,  Mrs.  W.  D.,  89,  90. 

Hughes,  Thomas,  184. 

Hutton,  Laurence,  263. 

Inns,  English,  191-93. 

Irving,  Henry,  and  mushrooms, 


181,  182;  gives  supper  at  the 
Lyceum  Theatre,  249,  250; 
gives  supper  to  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt  at  the  Beefsteak  Room 
of  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  250-53 ; 
and  "Fussy,"  253,  254. 

James,  Henry,  quoted  on  Brown 
ing.  J79;  quoted  on  London, 
185;  in  London,  231. 

Keats,  John,  216. 

Langdon,  Charles,  149,  151,  155. 

Langdon,  Olivia,  her  picture,  149; 
meets  Mark  Twain,  151 ;  injury 
and  care  of,  152-54;  engage 
ment  of,  155.  See  Clemens, 
Mrs. 

Lee,  Robert  E.,  surrender  of,  62. 

"Legend  of  Ara  Cceli,  The,"  220- 
22. 

Letters  from  the  Aldrich  children, 
162,  216-18. 

Libraries,  94,  95. 

Lincoln,  President,  assassination, 
64-70;  his  assassination  part  of 
a  conspiracy,  80. 

Liverpool,  225. 

Lodge,  Henry  Cabot,  243. 

London,  first  days  in,  169-72; 
Henry  James  quoted  on,  185; 
sights  of,  185,  190;  another 
visit  to,  231. 

Longfellow,   Henry  W.,    107-09, 

135- 

"Longfellow  Memorial  Fund" 
readings,  255-62. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  59,  135; 
letter  of,  quoted,  226;  on  his 
knowledge  of  Spanish,  227; 
on  reception  to  General  Grant 
in  Madrid,  227,  228;  reads  at 


294 


INDEX 


"Longfellow  Memorial  Fund" 

readings,  256,  262. 
Ludlow,  Fitz  Hugh,  18. 
Ludlow,  Mrs.  Fitz  Hugh,  18,  22, 

24. 

Lyceum  Theatre,  249-53. 
Lynn  Terrace,  222. 
Lyons,  199. 

Macmillan,  Mr.,  234,  235. 
Mark  Twain.  See  Clemens,  S.  L. 
Marseilles,  199. 
McAleer,  Patrick,  144. 
McAllister,  Ward,  90. 
McEntee,  Mrs.  and  Mrs.  Jervis, 

57- 
Mead,  Miss.    See  Howells,  Mrs. 

W.  D. 

"Mercedes,"  271-76. 
Millais,  Mrs.,  231. 
Monaco,  199. 
Monte  Carlo,  200. 

New  Year's  calls,  222,  223. 
Newton,  Dr.,  153,  154. 
Nice,  199. 

Norton,  C.  E.,  presides  at  Au 
thors'  Readings,  256,  257,  258. 
"'Nutter  House,"  the,  85,  110-19. 

Osgood,  James  R.,  105,  143. 

Palmer,  Mr.,  271-75. 

Paris,  193-98. 

Parsons,  Thomas  W.,  poem  on 
Mary  Booth,  38,  39;  at  Mary 
Booth's  funeral,  39;  epitaph 
on  Mary  Booth,  39,  40. 

Payne,  Lewis,  82. 

Peck,  Professor,  quoted  on  N.  P. 
Willis,  47. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  49-53. 

Pierce,  Henry  L.,  278-80. 

Pisa,  200,  201. 


Players  Club,  The,  263-67. 
Pope,  the,  visit  to,  201-16. 
Portsmouth,  85,  110-19. 

Rathbone,   Major   Henry  Reed, 

68,  69. 
Reid,  Mr.   and  Mrs.   Whitelaw, 

276,  278. 
Review  of  army  at  Washington, 

77-80. 
Rhodes,  James  Ford,  quoted  on 

the  surrender  of  Lee,  62,  63. 
Richmond,  dinner  at  "The  Star 

and  Garter,"  186-90. 
Rideing,  William  H.,  pen  portrait 

of  Aldrich,  260-62. 
Rome,  201. 

Rose  Cottage,  119,  120. 
Ruskin,  John,  231. 

Sala,  George  Augustus,  188,  189. 

Sand,  George,  197. 

Sargent,  John  S.,  paints  portrait 
of  Booth,  265-67;  lines  on  his 
portrait,  267. 

Scudder,  Horace  E.,  270. 

Seward,  William  H.,  80,  82. 

Shelley,  P.  B.,  216. 

Smalley,  George  Washburn,  153, 
174. 

Smalley,  Phoebe  Garnault,  173, 
176.  See  Garnault,  Miss. 

Smalleys',  the,  the  Aldriches  dine 
at,  173-84- 

Spain,  225. 

"Star  and  Garter,  The,"  Rich 
mond,  186-90. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  17; 
on  Oscar  Wilde's  visit  to  Bos 
ton,  246. 

Stedman,  Mrs.  E.  C.,  17;  her  lack 
of  tact,  223. 

Stedmans,  the,  receive  on  New 
Year's  Day,  222,  223. 


INDEX 


295 


Sterling,  Mrs.,  and  her  daughter 

Lizzie,  104,  105. 
Stoddard,  Richard  Henry,  12,  13, 

17,  59- 
Stoddard,  Mrs.  Richard  Henry, 

appearance,  13;  fascination  of, 

14,  17,  18;  her  salon,  15;  letter 

to  Mrs.  Booth  at  time  of  lat- 

ter's  sickness,  35. 
Stoker,  Bram,  251. 
"Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  The,"  quo 

tations  from,  111-17;  finished, 

118. 
Stowe,     Harriet     Beecher,     164; 

calls  on  the  Aldriches,  120-27. 
Sumter,  Fort,  64. 
Surratt,  Mrs.,  82. 
Swift,  Miss,  boarding-house    of, 


Taylor,  Bayard,  59;  picture  of,  17; 
sonnet  of,  on  marriage  of  Al- 
drich,  86;  says  good-bye  to  the 
Aldriches  on  the  "Abyssinia," 
162,  163;  death,  224;  poem  on, 
236. 

Taylor,  Mrs.  Bayard,  17. 


Terry,  Miss  Ellen,  250;  and  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  251-53. 

Thompson,  Launt,  18,  22,  25; 
his  chaperonage  of  Edwin 
Booth,  31;  his  studio,  56;  and 
Edwin  Booth's  mother,  75,  76. 

Ticknor  &  Fields,  99,  106. 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  143, 
144. 

Warren,  William,  39. 

Whistler,  James  A.  McNeill,  181, 
183,  184. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  59. 

Wilde,  Oscar,  visits  Boston,  246; 
received  by  Harvard  student 
masqueraders,  246;  the  Al 
driches  meet,  247-49;  drops  his 
masquerade,  250. 

Wilde,  Mrs.  Oscar,  250. 

Willis,  Imogene,  46. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  P.,  46-48. 

W7insor,  Justin,  91-95. 

Winter  Theatre,  Booth  becomes 
part  proprietor  of,  60. 

Woodman,  Lilian.  See  Aldrich, 
Mrs.  T.  B. 


dfxe  fitecmbc  prf  si* 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

tf  AY  1  2  1937" 
DEC  ±b  •***• 

FEB  9-  1953 


Form  L-9-15m-7,'31 


PS 

1029  Aldrich  - 
A1A1  Crowding 
memories. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  372  226    9 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

'AT 

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LIBRARY 


